'.I '"*'•:'' >''\, 


DAVID  GRATSON 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 


THE 
FRIENDLY  ROAD 

New  Adventures  in  Contentment 
By 

DAVID  GRAYSON 

Author  of  "Adventures  in  Contentment," 
"Adventures  in  Friendship" 


Illustrated  by 
THOMAS  FOGARTY 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLED  AY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1913 


Copyright,  1913,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 

COPYRIGHT,  I9H,  1913,  THE  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


A  WORD  TO  HIM  WHO  OPENS 
THIS  BOOK 

I  did  not  plan  when  I  began  writing  these 
chapters  to  make  an  entire  book,  but  only  to  put 
down  the  more  or  less  unusual  impressions,  the 
events  and  adventures,  of  certain  quiet  pilgrimages 
in  country  roads.  But  when  I  had  written  down 
all  of  these  things,  I  found  I  had  material  in  plenty. 

"What  shall  I  call  it  now  that  I  have  written 
it?"  I  asked  myself. 

At  first  I  thought  I  should  call  it  "Adventures 
on  the  Road,"  or  "The  Country  Road,"  or  some- 
thing equally  simple,  for  I  would  not  have  the 
title  arouse  any  appetite  which  the  book  itself 
could  not  satisfy.  One  pleasant  evening  I  was 
sitting  on  my  porch  with  my  dog  sleeping  near 
me,  and  Harriet  not  far  away  rocking  and  sewing, 
and  as  I  looked  out  across  the  quiet  fields  I  could 


2047282 


vi  A  WORD 

see  in  the  distance  a  curving  bit  of  the  town  road. 
I  could  see  the  valley  below  it  and  the  green  hill 
beyond,  and  my  mind  went  out  swiftly  along 
the  country  road  which  I  had  so  recently  travelled 
on  foot,  and  I  thought  with  deep  satisfaction  of  all 
the  people  I  had  met  on  my  pilgrimages  —  the 
Country  Minister  with  his  problems,  the  buoyant 
Stanleys,  Bill  Hahn  the  Socialist,  the  Vedders  in 
their  garden,  the  Brush  Peddler.  I  thought  of  the 
Wonderful  City,  and  of  how  for  a  time  I  had  been 
caught  up  into  its  life.  I  thought  of  the  men  I 
met  at  the  livery  stable,  especially  Healy,  the  wit, 
and  of  that  strange  Girl  of  the  Street.  And  it 
was  good  to  think  of  them  all  living  around  me, 
not  so  very  far  away,  connected  with  me  through 
darkness  and  space  by  a  certain  mysterious  human 
cord.  Most  of  all  I  love  that  which  I  cannot 
see  beyond  the  hill. 

"Harriet,"  I  said  aloud,  "it  grows  more  wonder- 
ful every  year  how  full  the  world  is  of  friendly 
people!" 

So  I  got  up  quickly  and  came  in  here  to  my 
room,  and  taking  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper  I  wrote 
down  the  title  of  my  new  book: 

"The  Friendly  Road." 

I  invite  you  to  travel  with  me  upon  this  friendly 
road.  You  may  find,  as  I  did,  something  which 


A  WORD  vii 

will  cause  you  for  a  time  to  forget  yourself  into 
contentment.  But  if  you  chance  to  be  a  truly 
serious  person,  put  down  my  book.  Let  nothing 
stay  your  hurried  steps,  nor  keep  you  from  your 
way. 

As  for  those  of  us  who  remain,  we  will  loiter  as 
much  as  ever  we  please.  We'll  take  toll  of  these 
spring  days,  we'll  stop  wherever  evening  overtakes 
us,  we'll  eat  the  food  of  hospitality  —  and  make 
friends  for  life! 

DAVID  GRAYSON. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface v 

CHAPTER 

I.     I  Leave  My  Farm        ...         3 
II.     I  Whistle 33 

III.  The  House  by  the  Side  of  the 

Road 57 

IV.  I  Am  the  Spectator  of  a  Mighty 

Battle,    in    which    Christian 

Meets  Apollyon       ...  83 
V.     I   Play  the  Part  of  a   Spectacle 

Peddler 115 

VI.     An  Experiment  in  Human  Na- 
ture           ...        .        .        .  143 

VII.     The  Undiscovered  Country        .  175 

VIII.     The  Hedge    .        .        .        . .'    .  199 

IX.    The  Man  Possessed       .        .        .  227 

X.     I  Am  Caught  Up  Into  Life       .  259 
XI.     I  Come  to  Grapple  with  the 

City    ......  289 

XII.     The  Return  .        ...        .  321 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  '  Surely  it  is  good  to  be  alive  at  a  time 

like  this!'".        .        .        .       Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"  '  I  will  stop  here/  I  said  to  myself"    .       20 

"  I  usually  prefer  the  little  roads,  the 
little,  unexpected,  curving,  leisurely 
country  roads  " 118 

"  '  I'll  fight  'em,  I'll  show  'em  yet!' "      .     212 

"  '  So  you  are  the  man  who  puts  up  the 

signs?" .234 

"A  huge,  rough-looking  man  .  .  . 
stood  at  the  centre  of  an  animated 
group".  .  .  .  .  .  .  280 

"  We  were  walking  along  slowly,  side  by 

side" 316 

"From  within  I  heard  the  rattling  of 

milk  in  a  pail" 336 


I  LEAVE  MY  FARM 


CHAPTER  I 
I  LEAVE  MY  FARM 

"Is  it  so  small  a  thing 

To  have  enjoyed  the  sun, 

To  have  lived  light  in  spring?" 

IT  IS  eight  o'clock  of  a  sunny  spring  morn- 
ing. I  have  been  on  the  road  for  almost 
three  hours.  At  five  I  left  the  town  of  Holt, 
before  six  I  had  crossed  the  railroad  at  a  place 
called  Martin's  Landing,  and  an  hour  ago,  at 
seven,  I  could  see  in  the  distance  the  spires  of 
Nortontown.  And  all  the  morning  as  I  came 
tramping  along  the  fine  country  roads  with  my 
pack-strap  resting  warmly  on  my  shoulder, 
and  a  song  in  my  throat— just  nameless  words 
to  a  nameless  tune  —  and  all  the  birds  singing, 

3 


4  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

and  all  the  brooks  bright  under  their  little 
bridges,  I  knew  that  I  must  soon  step  aside 
and  put  down,  if  I  could,  some  faint  impres- 
sion of  the  feeling  of  this  time  and  place.  I 
cannot  hope  to  convey  any  adequate  sense  of 
it  all  —  of  the  feeling  of  lightness,  strength, 
clearness,  I  have  as  I  sit  here  under  this  maple 
tree  —  but  I  am  going  to  write  as  long  as  ever 
I  am  happy  at  it,  and  when  I  am  no  longer 
happy  at  it,  why,  here  at  my  very  hand  lies 
the  pleasant  country  road,  stretching  away 
toward  newer  hills  and  richer  scenes. 

Until  to-day  I  have  not  really  been  quite 
clear  in  my  own  mind  as  to  the  step  I  have 
taken.  My  sober  friend,  have  you  ever  tried 
to  do  anything  that  the  world  at  large  con- 
siders not  quite  sensible,  not  quite  sane? 
Try  it!  It  is  easier  to  commit  a  thundering 
crime.  A  friend  of  mine  delights  in  walking 
to  town  bareheaded,  and  I  fully  believe  the 
neighbourhood  is  more  disquieted  thereby 
than  it  would  be  if  my  friend  came  home 
drunken  or  failed  to  pay  his  debts. 

Here  I  am  then,  a  farmer,  forty  miles  from 
home  in  planting  time,  taking  his  ease  under 
a  maple  tree  and  writing  in  a  little  book  held 
on  his  knee !  Is  not  that  the  height  of  absurd- 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  5 

ity?  Of  all  my  friends  the  Scotch  Preacher 
was  the  only  one  who  seemed  to  understand 
why  it  was  that  I  must  go  away  for  a  time. 
Oh,  I  am  a  sinful  and  revolutionary  person! 

When  I  left  home  last  week,  if  you  could 
have  had  a  truthful  picture  of  me  —  for  is 
there  not  a  photography  so  delicate  that  it 
will  catch  the  dim  thought-shapes  which 
attend  upon  our  lives  ?  —  if  you  could  have 
had  such  a  truthful  picture  of  me,  you  would 
have  seen,  besides  a  farmer  named  Grayson 
with  a  gray  bag  hanging  from  his  shoulder,  a 
strange  company  following  close  upon  his 
steps.  Among  this  crew  you  would  have 
made  out  easily: 

Two  fine  cows. 

Four  Berkshire  pigs. 

One  team  of  gray  horses,  the  old  mare  a  little 
lame  in  her  right  foreleg. 

About  fifty  hens,  four  cockerels,  and  a  number 
of  ducks  and  geese. 

More  than  this  —  I  shall  offer  no  explana- 
tion in  these  writings  of  any  miracles  that  may 
appear  —  you  would  have  seen  an  entirely 
respectable  old  farmhouse  bumping  and  hob- 
bling along  as  best  it  might  in  the  rear.  And 
in  the  doorway,  Harriet  Grayson,  in  her 


6  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

immaculate  white  apron,  with  the  veritable 
look  in  her  eyes  which  she  wears  when  I  am 
not  comporting  myself  with  quite  the  proper 
decorum. 

Oh,  they  would  not  let  me  go!  How  they 
all  followed  clamoring  after  me.  My 
thoughts  coursed  backward  faster  than  ever 
I  could  run  away.  If  you  could  have  heard 
that  motley  crew  of  the  barnyard  as  I  did  — 
the  hens  all  cackling,  the  ducks  quacking,  the 
pigs  grunting,  and  the  old  mare  neighing  and 
stamping,  you  would  have  thought  it  a 
miracle  that  I  escaped  at  all. 

So  often  we  think  in  a  superior  and  lordly 
manner  of  our  possessions,  when,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  we  do  not  really  possess  them,  they 
possess  us.  For  ten  years  I  have  been  the 
humble  servant,  attending  upon  the  com- 
monest daily  needs  of  sundry  hens,  ducks, 
geese,  pigs,  bees,  and  of  a  fussy  and  exacting 
old  gray  mare.  And  the  habit  of  servitude, 
I  find,  has  worn  deep  scars  upon  me.  I  am 
almost  like  the  life  prisoner  who  finds  the 
door  of  his  cell  suddenly  open,  and  fears  to 
escape.  Why,  I  had  almost  become  all 
farmer. 

On  the  first  morning  after  I  left  home  I 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  7 

awoke  as  usual  about  five  o'clock  with  the 
irresistible  feeling  that  I  must  do  the  milking. 
So  well  disciplined  had  I  become  in  my  servi- 
tude that  I  instinctively  thrust  my  leg  out  of 
bed  —  but  pulled  it  quickly  back  in  again, 
turned  over,  drew  a  long,  luxurious  breath, 
and  said  to  myself: 

"Avaunt  cows!  Get  thee  behind  me, 
swine!  Shoo,  hens!" 

Instantly  the  clatter  of  mastery  to  which  I 
had  responded  so  quickly  for  so  many  years 
grew  perceptibly  fainter,  the  hens  cackled  less 
domineeringly,  the  pigs  squealed  less  insist- 
ently, and  as  for  the  strutting  cockerel,  that 
lordly  and  despotic  bird  stopped  fairly  in  the 
middle  of  a  crow,  and  his  voice  gurgled  away 
in  a  spasm  of  astonishment.  As  for  the  old 
farmhouse,  it  grew  so  dim  I  could  scarcely  see 
it  at  all!  Having  thus  published  abroad  my 
Declaration  of  Independence,  nailed  my  de- 
fiance to  the  door,  and  otherwise  established 
myself  as  a  free  person,  I  turned  over  in  my 
bed  and  took  another  delicious  nap. 

Do  you  know,  friend,  we  can  be  free  of 
many  things  that  dominate  our  lives  by 
merely  crying  out  a  rebellious  "Avaunt!" 

But  in  spite  of  this  bold  beginning,  I  assure 


8  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

you  it  required  several  days  to  bre-ak  the 
habit  of  cows  and  hens.  The  second  morning 
I  awakened  again  at  five  o'clock,  but  my  leg 
did  not  make  for  the  side  of  the  bed;  the  third 
morning  I  was  only  partially  awakened,  and 
on  the  fourth  morning  I  slept  like  a  millionaire 
(or  at  least  I  slept  as  a  millionaire  is  supposed 
to  sleep!)  until  the  clock  struck  seven. 

For  some  days  after  I  left  home  —  and  I 
walked  out  as  casually  that  morning  as 
though  I  were  going  to  the  barn  —  I  scarcely 
thought  or  tried  to  think  of  anything  but  the 
Road.  Such  an  unrestrained  sense  of  liberty, 
such  an  exaltation  of  freedom,  I  have  not 
known  since  I  was  a  lad.  When  I  came  to 
my  farm  from  the  city  many  years  ago  it  was 
as  one  bound,  as  one  who  had  lost  out  in  the 
world's  battle  and  was  seeking  to  get  hold 
again  somewhere  upon  the  realities  of  life. 
I  have  related  elsewhere  how  I  thus  came 
creeping  like  one  sore  wounded  from  the  field 
of  battle,  and  how,  among  our  hills,  in  the 
hard,  steady  labour  in  the  soil  of  the  fields, 
with  new  and  simple  friends  around  me,  I 
found  a  sort  of  rebirth  or  resurrection.  I 
that  was  worn  out,  bankrupt  both  physically 
and  morally,  learned  to  live  again.  I  have 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  9 

achieved  something  of  high  happiness  in  these 
years,  something  I  know  of  pure  contentment; 
and  I  have  learned  two  or  three  deep  and 
simple  things  about  life:  I  have  learned  that 
happiness  is  not  to  be  had  for  the  seeking, 
but  comes  quietly  to  him  who  pauses  at  his 
difficult  task  and  looks  upward.  I  have 
learned  that  friendship  is  very  simple,  and, 
more  than  all  else,  I  have  learned  the  lesson 
of  being  quiet,  of  looking  out  across  the 
meadows  and  hills,  and  of  trusting  a  little  in 
God. 

And  now,  for  the  moment,  I  am  regaining 
another  of  the  joys  of  youth  —  that  of  the 
sense  of  perfect  freedom.  I  made  no  plans 
when  I  left  home,  I  scarcely  chose  the  direc- 
tion in  which  I  was  to  travel,  but  drifted  out, 
as  a  boy  might,  into  the  great  busy  world. 
Oh,  I  have  dreamed  of  that!  It  seems  almost 
as  though,  after  ten  years,  I  might  again  really 
touch  the  highest  joys  of  adventure! 

So  I  took  the  Road  as  it  came,  as  a  man 
takes  a  woman,  for  better  or  worse  —  I  took 
the  Road,  and  the  farms  along  it,  and  the 
sleepy  little  villages,  and  the  streams  from  the 
hillsides  —  all  with  high  enjoyment.  They 
were  good  coin  in  my  purse!  And  when  I  had 


io  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

passed  the  narrow  horizon  of  my  acquaint- 
anceship, and  reached  country  new  to  me,  it 
seemed  as  though  every  sense  I  had  began  to 
awaken.  I  must  have  grown  dull,  uncon- 
sciously, in  the  last  years  there  on  my  farm. 
I  cannot  describe  the  eagerness  of  discovery 
I  felt  at  climbing  each  new  hill,  nor  the  long 
breath  I  took  at  the  top  of  it  as  I  surveyed 
new  stretches  of  pleasant  countryside. 

Assuredly  this  is  one  of  the  royal  moments 
of  all  the  year  —  fine,  cool,  sparkling  spring 
weather.  I  think  I  never  saw  the  meadows 
richer  and  greener  —  and  the  lilacs  are  still 
blooming,  and  the  catbirds  and  orioles  are 
here.  The  oaks  are  not  yet  in  full  leaf,  but 
the  maples  have  nearly  reached  their  full 
mantle  of  verdure  —  they  are  very  beautiful 
and  charming  to  see. 

It  is  curious  how  at  this  moment  of  the  year 
all  the  world  seems  astir.  I  suppose  there  is 
no  moment  in  any  of  the  seasons  when  the 
whole  army  of  agriculture,  regulars  and 
reserves,  is  so  fully  drafted  for  service  in  the 
fields.  And  all  the  doors  and  windows,  both 
in  the  little  villages  and  on  the  farms,  stand 
wide  open  to  the  sunshine,  and  all  the  women 
and  girls  are  busy  in  the  yards  and  gardens. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 


ii 


Such  a  fine,  active,  gossipy,  adventurous  world 
as  it  is  at  this  moment  of  the  year! 

It  is  the  time,  too,  when  all  sorts  of  travel- 
ling people  are  afoot.     People  who  have  been 


r 


"(SUCH   A   FINE,    GOSSIPY  WORLD" 

mewed  up  in  the  cities  for  the  winter  now 
take  to  the  open  road  —  all  the  peddlers  and 
agents  and  umbrella-menders,  all  the  nursery 
salesmen  and  fertilizer  agents,  all  the  tramps 
and  scientists  and  poets  —  all  abroad  in  the 


12  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

wide  sunny  roads.  They,  too,  know  well  this 
hospitable  moment  of  the  spring;  they,  too, 
know  that  doors  and  hearts  are  open  and  that 
even  into  dull  lives  creeps  a  bit  of  the  spirit 
of  adventure.  Why,  a  farmer  will  buy  a  corn 
planter,  feed  a  tramp,  or  listen  to  a  poet 
twice  as  easily  at  this  time  of  year  as  at  any 
other! 

For  several  days  I  found  myself  so  fully 
occupied  with  the  bustling  life  of  the  Road 
that  I  scarcely  spoke  to  a  living  soul,  but 
strode  straight  ahead.  The  spring  has  been 
late  and  cold:  most  of  the  corn  and  some  of 
the  potatoes  are  not  yet  in,  and  the  tobacco 
lands  are  still  bare  and  brown.  Occasionally  I 
stopped  to  watch  some  ploughman  in  the  fields : 
I  saw  with  a  curious,  deep  satisfaction  how  the 
moist  furrows,  freshly  turned,  glistened  in  the 
warm  sunshine.  There  seemed  to  be  something 
right  and  fit  about  it,  as  well  as  human  and 
beautiful.  Or  at  evening  I  would  stop  to  watch 
a  ploughman  driving  homeward  across  his  new 
brown  fields,  raising  a  cloud  of  fine  dust  from 
the  fast  drying  furrow  crests.  The  low  sun 
shining  through  the  dust  and  glorifying  it, 
the  weary-stepping  horses,  the  man  all  sombre- 
coloured  like  the  earth  itself  and  knit  into  the 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  13 

scene  as  though  a  part  of  it,  made  a  picture 
exquisitely  fine  to  see. 

And  what  a  joy  I  had  also  of  the  lilacs 
blooming  in  many  a  dooryard,  the  odour  often 
trailing  after  me  for  a  long  distance  in  the 
road,  and  of  the  pungent  scent  at  evening  in 
the  cool  hollows  of  burning  brush  heaps  and 
the  smell  of  barnyards  as  I  went  by — not  un- 
pleasant, not  offensive — and  above  all,  the  deep, 
earthy,  moist  odour  of  new-ploughed  fields. 

And  then,  at  evening,  to  hear  the  sound  of 
voices  from  the  dooryards  as  I  pass  quite 
unseen;  no  words,  but  just  pleasant,  quiet 
intonations  of  human  voices,  borne  through 
the  still  air,  or  the  low  sounds  of  cattle  in  the 
barnyards,  quieting  down  for  the  night,  and 
often,  if  near  a  village,  the  distant,  slumbrous 
sound  of  a  church  bell,  or  even  the  rumble  of 
a  train  —  how  good  all  these  sounds  are! 
They  have  all  come  to  me  again  this  week 
with  renewed  freshness  and  impressiveness. 
I  am  living  deep  again! 

It  was  not,  indeed,  until  last  Wednesday 
that  I  began  to  get  my  fill,  temporarily,  of 
the  outward  satisfaction  of  the  Road  —  the 
primeval  takings  of  the  senses  —  the  mere 
joys  of  seeing,  hearing,  smelling,  touching. 


i4  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

But  on  that  day  I  began  to  wake  up;  I  began 
to  have  a  desire  to  know  something  of  all  the 
strange  and  interestng  people  who  are  working 
in  their  fields,  or  standing  invitingly  in  their 
doorways,  or  so  busily  afoot  in  the  country 
roads.  Let  me  add,  also,  for  this  is  one  of  the 
most  important  parts  of  my  present  experience, 
that  this  new  desire  was  far  from  being  wholly 
esoteric.  I  had  also  begun  to  have  cravings 
which  would  not  in  the  least  be  satisfied  by 
landscapes  or  dulled  by  the  sights  and  sounds 
of  the  road.  A  whiff  here  and  there  from  a 
doorway  at  mealtime  had  made  me  long  for 
my  own  home,  for  the  sight  of  Harriet  calling 
from  the  steps: 

"Dinner,  David." 

But  I  had  covenanted  with  myself  long 
before  starting  that  I  would  literally  "live 
light  in  spring."  It  was  the  one  and  primary 
condition  I  made  with  myself  —  and  made 
with  serious  purpose  —  and  when  I  came 
away  I  had  only  enough  money  in  my  pocket 
and  sandwiches  in  my  pack  to  see  me  through 
the  first  three  or  four  days.  Any  man  may 
brutally  pay  his  way  anywhere,  but  it  is  quite 
another  thing  to  be  accepted  by  your  human- 
kind not  as  a  paid  lodger  but  as  a  friend. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  15 

Always,  it  seems  to  me,  I  have  wanted  to 
submit  myself,  and  indeed  submit  the  stranger, 
to  that  test.  Moreover,  how  can  any  man 
look  for  true  adventure  in  life  if  he  always 
knows  to  a  certainty  where  his  next  meal  is 
coming  from?  In  a  world  so  completely 
dominated  by  goods,  by  things,  by  posses- 
sions, and  smothered  by  security,  what  fine 
adventure  is  left  to  a  man  of  spirit  save  the 
adventure  of  poverty? 

I  do  not  mean  by  this  the  adventure  of 
involuntary  poverty,  for  I  maintain  that  in- 
voluntary poverty,  like  involuntary  riches, 
is  a  credit  to  no  man.  It  is  only  as  we  domi- 
nate life  that  we  really  live.  What  I  mean 
here,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  is  an  adventure  in 
achieved  poverty.  In  the  lives  of  such  true 
men  as  Francis  of  Assisi  and  Tolstoi,  that 
which  draws  the  world  to  them  in  secret 
sympathy  is  not  that  they  lived  lives 
of  poverty,  but  rather,  having  riches  at 
their  hands,  or  for  the  very  asking,  that 
they  chose  poverty  as  the  better  way  of 
life. 

As  for  me,  I  do  not  in  the  least  pretend  to 
have  accepted  the  final  logic  of  an  achieved 
poverty.  I  have  merely  abolished  tempo- 


16  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

rarily  from  my  life  a  few  hens  and  cows,  a 
comfortable  old  farmhouse,  and  certain  other 
emoluments  and  hereditaments  —  but  re- 
main the  slave  of  sundry  cloth  upon  my  back 
and  sundry  articles  in  my  gray  bag  —  includ- 
ing a  fat  pocket  volume  or  so,  and  a  tin  whistle. 
Let  them  pass  now.  To-morrow  I  may  wish 
to  attempt  life  with  still  less.  I  might  survive 
without  my  battered  copy  of  "Montaigne"  or 
even  submit  to  existence  without  that  sense  of 
distant  companionship  symbolized  by  a  post- 
age-stamp, and  as  for  trousers  — 

In  this  deceptive  world,  how  difficult  of 
attainment  is  perfection! 

No,  I  expect  I  shall  continue  for  a  long 
time  to  owe  the  worm  his  silk,  the  beast  his 
hide,  the  sheep  his  wool,  and  the  cat  his 
perfume!  What  I  am  seeking  is  something 
as  simple  and  as  quiet  as  the  trees  or  the  hills 
—  just  to  look  out  around  me  at  the  pleasant 
countryside,  to  enjoy  a  little  of  this  passing 
show,  to  meet  (and  to  help  a  little  if  I  may) 
a  few  human  beings,  and  thus  to  get  more 
nearly  into  the  sweet  kernel  of  human  life. 
My  friend,  you  may  or  may  not  think  this 
a  worthy  object;  if  you  do  not,  stop  here, 
go  no  further  with  me;  but  if  you  do, 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  17 

why,  we'll  exchange  great  words  on  the 
road;  we'll  look  up  at  the  sky  together, 
we'll  see  and  hear  the  finest  things  in  this 
world!  We'll  enjoy  the  sun!  We'll  live 
light  in  spring! 

Until  last  Tuesday,  then,  I  was  carried 
easily  and  comfortably  onward  by  the  corn, 
the  eggs,  and  the  honey  of  my  past  labours,  and 
before  Wednesday  noon  I  began  to  experience 
in  certain  vital  centres  recognizable  symptoms 
of  a  variety  of  discomfort  anciently  familiar 
to  man.  And  it  was  all  the  sharper  because 
I  did  not  know  how  or  where  I  could  assuage 
it.  In  all  my  life,  in  spite  of  various  ups  and 
downs  in  a  fat  world,  I  don't  think  I  was 
ever  before  genuinely  hungry.  Oh,  I've  been 
hungry  in  a  reasonable,  civilized  way,  but  I 
have  always  known  where  in  an  hour  or  so  I 
could  get  all  I  wanted  to  eat  —  a  condition 
accountable,  in  this  world,  I  am  convinced, 
for  no  end  of  stupidity.  But  to  be  both 
physically  and,  let  us  say,  psychologically 
hungry,  and  not  to  know  where  or  how  to  get 
anything  to  eat,  adds  something  to  the  zest 
of  life. 

By  noon  on  Wednesday,  then,  I  was  re- 
duced quite  to  a  point  of  necessity.  But 


i8  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

where  was  I  to  begin,  and  how?  I  know  from 
long  experience  the  suspicion  with  which  the 
ordinary  farmer  meets  the  Man  of  the  Road 
—  the  man  who  appears  to  wish  to  enjoy  the 
fruits  of  the  earth  without  working  for  them 
with  his  hands.  It  is  a  distrust  deep-seated 
and  ages  old.  Nor  can  the  Man  of  the  Road 
ever  quite  understand  the  Man  of  the  Fields. 
And  here  was  I,  for  so  long  the  stationary  Man 
of  the  Fields,  essaying  the  role  of  the  Man  of 
the  Road.  I  experienced  a  sudden  sense  of  the 
enlivenment  of  the  faculties:  I  must  now 
depend  upon  wit  or  cunning  or  human  nature 
to  win  my  way,  not  upon  mere  skill  of  the  hand 
or  strength  in  the  bent  back.  Whereas  in  my 
former  life,  when  I  was  assailed  by  a  Man  of 
the  Road,  whether  tramp  or  peddler  or  poet,  I 
had  only  to  stand  stock-still  within  my  fences 
and  say  nothing  —  though  indeed  I  never 
could  do  that,  being  far  too  much  interested 
in  every  one  who  came  my  way  —  and  the 
invader  was  soon  repelled.  There  is  nothing 
so  resistant  as  the  dull  security  of  possession : 
the  stolidity  of  ownership ! 

Many  times  that  day  I  stopped  by  a  field 
side  or  at  the  end  of  a  lane,  or  at  a  house-gate, 
and  considered  the  possibilities  of  making  an 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  19 

attack.  Oh,  I  measured  the  houses  and  barns 
I  saw  with  a  new  eye!  The  kind  of  country 
I  had  known  so  long  and  familiarly  became  a 
new  and  foreign  land,  full  of  strange  possi- 
bilities. I  spied  out  the  men  in  the  fields  and 
did  not  fail,  also,  to  see  what  I  could  of  the 
commissary  department  of  each  farmstead 
as  I  passed.  I  walked  for  miles  looking  thus 
for  a  favourable  opening  —  and  with  a  sensa- 
tion of  embarrassment  at  once  disagreeable 
and  pleasurable.  As  the  afternoon  began  to 
deepen  I  saw  that  I  must  absolutely  do  some- 
thing: a  whole  day  tramping  in  the  open  air 
without  a  bite  to  eat  is  an  irresistible  argu- 
ment. 

Presently  I  saw  from  the  road  a  farmer  and 
his  son  planting  potatoes  in  a  sloping  field. 
There  was  no  house  at  all  in  view.  At  the 
bars  stood  a  light  wagon  half  filled  with  bags 
of  seed  potatoes,  and  the  horse  which  had 
drawn  it  stood  quietly,  not  far  off,  tied  to  the 
fence.  The  man  and  the  boy,  each  with  a 
basket  on  his  arm,  were  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  field,  dropping  potatoes.  I  stood  quietly 
watching  them.  They  stepped  quickly  and 
kept  their  eyes  on  the  furrows:  good  workers. 
I  liked  the  looks  of  them.  I  liked  also  the 


20  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

straight,  clean  furrows;  I  liked  the  appearance 
of  the  horse. 

"  I  will  stop  here, "  I  said  to  myself. 

I  cannot  at  all  convey  the  sense  of  high 
adventure  I  had  as  I  stood  there.  Though  I 
had  not  the  slightest  idea  of  what  I  should 
do  or  say,  yet  I  was  determined  upon  the 
attack. 

Neither  father  nor  son  saw  me  until  they 
had  nearly  reached  the  end  of  the  field. 

"Step  lively,  Ben,"  I  heard  the  man  say 
with  some  impatience;  "we've  got  to  finish 
this  field  to-day. " 

"  I  am  steppin'  lively,  dad, "  responded  the 
boy,  "but  it's  awful  hot.  We  can't  possibly 
finish  to-day.  It's  too  much. " 

"We've  got  to  get  through  here  to-day," 
the  man  replied  grimly;  "we're  already  two 
weeks  late. " 

I  .know  just  how  the  man  felt;  for  I  knewr 
well  the  difficulty  a  farmer  has  in  getting  help 
in  planting  time.  The  spring  waits  for  no 
man.  My  heart  went  out  to  the  man  and  boy 
struggling  there  in  the  heat  of  their  sloping 
field.  For  this  is  the  real  warfare  of  the 
common  life. 

"Why,"  I  said  to  myself  with  a  curious  lift 


"  '  /  will  stop  here,'  I  said  to  myself  " 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  21 

of  the  heart,  "they  have  need  of  a  fellow  just 
like  me." 

At  that  moment  the  boy  saw  me  and,  miss- 
ing a  step  in  the  rhythm  of  the  planting,  the 
father  also  looked  up  and  saw  me.  But 
neither  said  a  word  until  the  furrows  were 
finished,  and  the  planters  came  to  refill  their 
baskets. 

"Fine  afternoon,"  I  said,  sparring  for  an 
opening. 

"Fine,"  responded  the  man  rather  shortly, 
glancing  up  from  his  work.  I  recalled  the 
scores  of  times  I  had  been  exactly  in  his  place, 
and  had  glanced  up  to  see  the  stranger  in  the 
road. 

"Got  another  basket  handy?"  I  asked. 

"There  is  one  somewhere  around  here,"  he 
answered  not  too  cordially.  The  boy  said 
nothing  at  all,  but  eyed  me  with  absorbing 
interest.  The  gloomy  look  had  already  gone 
from  his  face. 

I  slipped  my  gray  bag  from  my  shoulder, 
took  off  my  coat,  and  put  them  both  down 
inside  the  fence.  Then  I  found  the  basket  and 
began  to  fill  it  from  one  of  the  bags.  Both 
man  and  boy  looked  up  at  me  questioningly. 
I  enjoyed  the  situation  immensely. 


22  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"I  heard  you  say  to  your  son, "  I  said,  "that 
you'd  have  to  hurry  in  order  to  get  in  your 
potatoes  to-day.  I  can  see  that  for  myself. 
Let  me  take  a  hand  for  a  row  or  two. " 

The  unmistakable  shrewd  look  of  the  bar- 
gainer came  suddenly  into  the  man's  face,  but 
when  I  went  about  my  business  without  hesi- 
tation or  questioning,  he  said  nothing  at  all. 
As  for  the  boy,  the  change  in  his  countenance 
was  marvellous  to  see.  Something  new  and 
astonishing  had  come  into  the  world.  Oh, 
I  know  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  a  boy  and  have 
to  work  in  trouting  time ! 

"How  near  are  you  planting,  Ben  ?"  I  asked. 

" About  fourteen  inches." 

So  we  began  in  fine  spirits.  I  was  delighted 
with  the  favourable  beginning  of  my  enter- 
prise; there  is  nothing  which  so  draws  men  to- 
gether as  their  employment  at  a  common  task. 

Ben  was  a  lad  some  fifteen  years  old  —  very 
stout  and  stocky,  with  a  fine  open  countenance 
and  a  frank  blue  eye  —  all  boy.  His  nose 
was  as  freckled  as  the  belly  of  a  trout.  The 
whole  situation,  including  the  prospect  of  help 
in  finishing  a  tiresome  job,  pleased  him  hugely. 
He  stole  a  glimpse  from  time  to  time  at  me  and 
then  at  his  father.  Finally  he  said : 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  23 

"Say,  you'll  have  to  step  lively  to  keep  up 
with  dad." 

"I'll  show  you,"  I  said,  "how  we  used  to 
drop  potatoes  when  I  was  a  boy. " 

And  with  that  I  began  to  step  ahead  more 
quickly  and  make  the  pieces  fairly  fly. 

"We  old  fellows,"  I  said  to  the  father, 
"must  give  these  young  sprouts  a  lesson  once 
in  a  while." 

"You  will,  will  you?"  responded  the  boy, 
and  instantly  began  to  drop  the  potatoes 
at  a  prodigious  speed.  The  father  followed 
with  more  dignity,  but  with  evident  amuse- 
ment, and  so  we  all  came  with  a  rush  to  the  end 
of  the  row. 

"I  guess  that  beats  the  record  across  this 
field!"  remarked  the  lad,  puffing  and  wiping 
his  forehead.  "Say,  but  you're  a  good  one!" 

It  gave  me  a  peculiar  thrill  of   pleasure; 
there  is  nothing  more  pleasing  than  the  frank 
admiration  of  a  boy. 
We  paused  a  moment  and  I  said  to  the  man: 

"This  looks  like  fine  potato  land. " 

"The'  ain't  any  better  in  these  parts," 
he  replied  with  some  pride  in  his  voice. 

And  so  we  went  at  the  planting  again:  and 
as  we  planted  we  had  great  talk  of  seed  po- 


24  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

tatoes  and  the  advantages  and  disadvantages 
of  mechanical  planters,  of  cultivating  and 
spraying,  and  all  the  lore  of  prices  and  profits. 
Once  we  stopped  at  the  lower  end  of  the  field 
to  get  a  drink  from  a  jug  of  water  set  in  the 
shade  of  a  fence  corner,  and  once  we  set  the 
horse  in  the  thills  and  moved  the  seed  farther 
up  the  field.  And  tired  and  hungry  as  I  felt 
I  really  enjoyed  the  work;  I  really  enjoyed 
talking  with  this  busy  father  and  son,  and  I 
wondered  what  their  home  life  was  like  and 
what  were  their  real  ambitions  and  hopes. 
Thus  the  sun  sank  lower  and  lower,  the  long 
shadows  began  to  creep  into  the  valleys, 
and  we  came  finally  toward  the  end  of  the 
field.  Suddenly  the  boy  Ben  cried  out: 

"There's  Sis!" 

I  glanced  up  and  saw  standing  near  the 
gateway  a  slim,  bright  girl  of  about  twelve 
in  a  fresh  gingham  dress. 

"We're  coming!"  roared  Ben,  exultantly. 

While  we  were  hitching  up  the  horse,  the 
man  said  to  me: 

"You'll  come  down  with  us  and  have  some 
supper." 

"Indeed  I  will,"  I  replied,  trying  not  to 
make  my  response  too  eager. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  25 

"Did  mother  make  gingerbread  today?" 
I  heard  the  boy  whisper  audibly. 

"Sh-h  — "  replied  the  girl;  "who  is  that 
man?" 

"/  don't  know"  —  with  a  great  accent  of 
mystery  —  "and  dad  don't  know.  Did 
mother  make  gingerbread?" 

"Sh-h  — he'll  hear  you." 

"Gee!  but  he  can  plant  potatoes.  He 
dropped  down  on  us  out  of  a  clear  sky." 

"What  is  he?"  she  asked.     "A  tramp?" 

"Nope,  not  a  tramp.  He  works.  But,  Sis, 
did  mother  make  gingerbread?" 

So  we  all  got  into  the  light  wagon  and 
drove  briskly  out  along  the  shady  coun- 
try road.  The  evening  was  coming  on, 
and  the  air  was  full  of  the  scent  of  blos- 
soms. We  turned  finally  into  a  lane  and 
thus  came  promptly,  for  the  horse  was  as 
eager  as  we,  to  the  capacious  farmyard.  A 
motherly  woman  came  out  from  the  house, 
spoke  to  her  son,  and  nodded  pleasantly  to 
me.  There  was  no  especial  introduction.  I 
said  merely,  "My  name  is  Grayson,"  and 
I  was  accepted  without  a  word. 

I  waited  to  help  the  man,  whose  name  I 
had  now  learned  —  it  was  Stanley  —  with  his 


26  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

horse  and  wagon,  and  then  we  came  up  to 
the  house.  Near  the  back  door  there  was  a 
pump,  with  a  bench  and  basin  set  just  within 
a  little  cleanly  swept,  open  shed.  Rolling 
back  my  collar  and  baring  my  arms  I  washed 
myself  in  the  cool  water,  dashing  it  over  my 
head  until  I  gasped,  and  then  stepping  back, 
breathless  and  refreshed,  I  found  the  slim 
girl,  Mary,  at  my  elbow  with  a  clean  soft 
towel.  As  I  stood  wiping  quietly  I  could 
smell  the  ambrosial  odours  from  the  kitchen. 
In  all  my  life  I  never  enjoyed  a  moment  more 
than  that,  I  think. 

"Come  in  now,"  said  the  motherly  Mrs. 
Stanley. 

So  we  filed  into  the  roomy  kitchen,  where 
an  older  girl,  called  Kate,  was  flying  about 
placing  steaming  dishes  upon  the  table. 
There  was  also  an  older  son,  who  had  been 
at  the  farm  chores.  It  was  altogether  a  fine, 
vigorous,  independent  American  family.  So 
we  all  sat  down  and  drew  up  our  chairs.  Then 
we  paused  a  moment,  and  the  father,  bowing 
his  head,  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"For  all  Thy  good  gifts,  Lord,  we  thank 
Thee.  Preserve  us  and  keep  us  through  an- 
other night." 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  27 

I  suppose  it  was  a  very  ordinary  farm 
meal,  but  it  seems  to  me  I  never  tasted  a 
better  one.  The  huge  piles  of  new  baked 
bread,  the  sweet  farm  butter,  already  deli- 
cious with  the  flavour  of  new  grass,  the  bacon 
and  eggs,  the  potatoes,  the  rhubarb  sauce, 
the  great  plates  of  new,  hot  gingerbread  and, 
at  the  last,  the  custard  pie  —  a  great  wedge 
of  it,  with  fresh  cheese.  After  the  first 
ravenous  appetite  of  hardworking  men  was 
satisfied,  there  came  to  be  a  good  deal  of 
lively  conversation.  The  girls  had  some  joke 
between  them  which  Ben  was  trying  in  vain  to 
fathom.  The  older  son  told  how  much  milk 
a  certain  Alderney  cow  had  given,  and  Mr. 
Stanley,  quite  changed  now  as  he  sat  at  his 
own  table  from  the  rather  grim  farmer  of  the 
afternoon,  revealed  a  capacity  for  a  husky 
sort  of  fun,  joking  Ben  about  his  potato- 
planting  and  telling  in  a  lively  way  of  his 
race  with  me.  As  for  Mrs  Stanley,  she  sat 
smiling  behind  her  tall  coffee  pot,  radiating 
good  cheer  and  hospitality.  They  asked  me 
no  questions  at  all,  and  I  was  so  hungry  and 
tired  that  I  volunteered  no  information. 

After  supper  we  went  out  for  half  or  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  to  do  some  final  chores, 


28  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

and  Mr.  Stanley  and  I  stopped  in  the  cattle 
yard  and  looked  over  the  cows,  and  talked 
learnedly  about  the  pigs,  and  I  admired 
his  spring  calves  to  his  heart's  content,  for 
they  really  were  a  fine  lot.  When  we  came  in 
again  the  lamps  had  been  lighted  in  the  sit- 
ting-room and  the  older  daughter  was  at  the 
telephone  exchanging  the  news  of  the  day 
with  some  neighbour  —  and  with  great 
laughter  and  enjoyment.  Occasionally  she 
would  turn  and  repeat  some  bit  of  gossip 
to  the  family,  and  Mrs.  Stanley  would  ex- 
claim: 

"Do  tell!" 

"Can't  we  have  a  bit  of  music  to-night?" 
inquired  Mr.  Stanley. 

Instantly  Ben  and  the  slim  girl,  Mary, 
made  a  wild  dive  for  the  front  room  — 
the  parlour  —  and  came  out  with  a  first- 
rate  phonograph  which  they  placed  on  the 
table. 

"Something  lively  now,"  said  Mr.  Stanley. 

So  they  put  on  a  rollicking  negro  song 
called  "My  Georgia  Belle,"  which,  besides 
the  tuneful  voices,  introduced  a  steamboat 
whistle  and  a  musical  clangour  of  bells.  When 
it  wound  up  with  a  bang,  Mr.  Stanley  took 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  29 

his  big  comfortable  pipe  out  of  his  mouth 
and  cried  out: 

"Fine,  fine!" 

We  had  further  music  of  the  same  sort  and 
with  one  record  the  older  daughter,  Kate, 
broke  into  the  song  with  a  full,  strong  though 
uncultivated  voice  —  which  pleased  us  all 
very  much  indeed. 

Presently  Mrs.  Stanley,  who  was  sitting 
under  the  lamp  with  a  basket  of  socks  to 
mend,  began  to  nod. 

"Mother's  giving  the  signal,"  said  the 
older  son. 

"No,  no,  I'm  not  a  bit  sleepy,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Stanley. 

But  with  further  joking  and  laughing  the 
family  began  to  move  about.  The  older 
daughter  gave  me  a  hand  lamp  and  showed 
me  the  way  upstairs  to  a  little  room  at  the 
end  of  the  house. 

"I  think,"  she  said  with  pleasant  dignity, 
"you  will  find  everything  you  need." 

I  cannot  tell  with  what  solid  pleasure  I 
rolled  into  bed  or  how  soundly  and  sweetly  I 
slept. 

This  was  the  first  day  of  my  real  adven- 
tures. 


I  WHISTLE 


CHAPTER  II 
I  WHISTLE 

TT  THEN  I  was  a  boy  I  learned  after  many 
V  V  discouragements  to  play  on  a  tin  whistle. 
There  was  a  wandering  old  fellow  in  our 
town  who  would  sit  for  hours  on  the  shady 
side  of  a  certain  ancient  hotel-barn,  and  with 
his  little  whistle  to  his  lips,  and  gently  swaying 
his  head  to  his  tune  and  tapping  one  foot  in 
the  gravel,  he  would  produce  the  most  wonder- 
ful and  beguiling  melodies.  His  favourite  selec- 
tions were  very  lively;  he  played,  I  remember, 
"Old  Dan  Tucker,"  and  "Money  Musk," 
and  the  tune  of  a  rollicking  old  song,  now  no 
doubt  long  forgotten,  called  "Wait  for  the 
Wagon."  I  can  see  him  yet,  with  his  jolly 
eyes  half  closed,  his  lips  puckered  around  the 
whistle,  and  his  fingers  curiously  and  stiffly 
poised  over  the  stops.  I  am  sure  I  shall 

33 


34  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

never  forget  the  thrill  which  his  music  gave 
to  the  heart  of  a  certain  barefoot  boy. 

At  length,  by  means  I  have  long  since 
forgotten,  I  secured  a  tin  whistle  exactly 
like  Old  Tom  Madison's  and  began  dili- 
gently to  practise  such  tunes  as  I  knew. 
I  am  quite  sure  now  that  I  must  have  made 
a  nuisance  of  myself,  for  it  soon  appeared 
to  be  the  set  purpose  of  every  member  of  the 
family  to  break  up  my  efforts.  Whenever 
my  father  saw  me  with  the  whistle  to  my 
lips,  he  would  instantly  set  me  at  some  useful 
work  (oh,  he  was  an  adept  in  discovering 
useful  work  to  do  —  for  a  boy!).  And  at 
the  very  sight  of  my  stern  aunt  I  would 
instantly  secrete  my  whistle  in  my  blouse 
and  fly  for  the  garret  or  cellar,  like  a  cat  caught 
in  the  cream.  Such  are  the  early  tribulations 
of  musical  genius! 

At  last  I  discovered  a  remote  spot  on  a 
beam  in  the  hay-barn  where,  lighted  by  a  ray 
of  sunlight  which  came  through  a  crack  in 
the  eaves  and  pointed  a  dusty  golden  finger 
into  that  hay-scented  interior,  I  practised 
rapturously  and  to  my  heart's  content  upon 
my  tin  whistle.  I  learned  "Money  Musk" 
until  I  could  play  it  in  Old  Tom  Madison's 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  35 

best  style  —  even  to  the  last  nod  and  final 
foot-tap.  I  turned  a  certain  church  hymn 
called  "Yield  Not  to  Temptation"  into 
something  quite  inspiriting,  and  I  played 
"Marching  Through  Georgia"  until  all  the 
"happy  hills  of  hay"  were  to  the  fervid  eye 
of  a  boy's  imagination  full  of  tramping  soldiers. 
Oh,  I  shall  never  forget  the  joys  of  those 
hours  in  the  hay-barn,  nor  the  music  of  that 
secret  tin  whistle!  I  can  hear  yet  the  croon- 
ing of  the  pigeons  in  the  eaves,  and  the 
slatey  sound  of  their  wings  as  they  flew 
across  the  open  spaces  in  the  great  barn;  I 
can  smell  yet  the  odour  of  the  hay. 

But  with  years,  and  the  city,  and  the  shame 
of  youth,  I  put  aside  and  almost  forgot  the 
art  of  whistling.  When  I  was  preparing  for  the 
present  pilgrimage,  however,  it  came  to  me 
with  a  sudden  thrill  of  pleasure  that  nothing 
in  the  wide  world  now  prevented  me  from 
getting  a  whistle  and  seeing  whether  I  had 
forgotten  my  early  cunning  At  the  very 
first  good-sized  town  I  came  to  I  was  de- 
lighted to  find  at  a  little  candy  and  toy  shop 
just  the  sort  of  whistle  I  wanted,  at  the 
extravagant  price  of  ten  cents.  I  bought  it 
and  put  it  in  the  bottom  of  my  knapsack. 


36         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"Am  I  not  old  enough  now,"  I  said  to 
myself,  "to  be  as  youthful  as  I  choose?" 

Isn't  it  the  strangest  thing  in  the  world 
how  long  it  takes  us  to  learn  to  accept  the 
joys  of  simple  pleasures  ?  —  and  some  of  us 
never  learn  at  all.  "Boo!"  says  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  we  are  instantly  frightened 
into  doing  a  thousand  unnecessary  and  un- 
pleasant things,  or  prevented  from  doing  a 
thousand  beguiling  things. 

For  the  first  few  days  I  was  on  the  road 
I  thought  often  with  pleasure  of  the  whistle 
lying  there  in  my  bag,  but  it  was  not  until 
after  I  left  the  Stanleys'  that  I  felt  exactly 
in  the  mood  to  try  it. 

The  fact  is,  my  adventures  on  the  Stanley 
farm  had  left  me  in  a  very  cheerful  frame  of 
mind.  They  convinced  me  that  some  of  the 
great  things  I  had  expected  of  my  pilgrimage 
were  realizable  possibilities.  Why,  I  had 
walked  right  into  the  heart  of  as  fine  a  family 
as  I  have  seen  these  many  days. 

I  remained  with  them  the  entire  day  follow- 
ing the  patoto-planting.  We  were  out  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  after  helping  with 
the  chores,  and  eating  a  prodigious  breakfast, 
we  went  again  to  the  potato-field,  and  part 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  37 

of  the  time  I  helped  plant  a  few  remaining 
rows,  and  part  of  the  time  I  drove  a  team 
attached  to  a  wing-plow  to  cover  the  planting 
of  the  previous  day. 

In  the  afternoon  a  slashing  spring  rain 
set  in,  and  Mr.  Stanley,  who  was  a  fore- 
handed worker,  found  a  job  for  all  of  us 
in  the  barn.  Ben,  the  younger  son,  and 
I  sharpened  mower-blades  and  a  scythe  or 
so,  Ben  turning  the  grindstone  and  I.  holding 
the  blades  and  telling  him  stories  into  the 
bargain.  Mr.  Stanley  and  his  stout  older 
son  overhauled  the  work-harness  and  tinkered 
the  corn-planter.  The  doors  at  both  ends 
of  the  barn  stood  wide  open,  and  through 
one  of  them,  framed  like  a  picture,  we  could 
see  the  scudding  floods  descend  upon  the 
meadows,  and  through  the  other,  across 
a  fine  stretch  of  open  country,  we  could 
see  all  the  roads  glistening  and  the  tree- 
tops  moving  under  the  rain. 

"  Fine,  fine ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Stanley,  look- 
ing out  from  time  to  time,  "we  got  in  our 
potatoes  just  in  the  nick  of  time." 

After  supper  that  evening  I  told  them  of 
rny  plan  to  leave  them  on  the  following 
morning. 


3  8  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"Don't  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Stanley  heart- 
ily; "stay  on  with  us." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Stanley,  "we're  short- 
handed,  and  I'd  be  glad  to  have  a  man  like 
you  all  summer.  There  ain't  any  one  around 
here  will  pay  a  good  man  more'n  I  will,  nor 
treat  'im  better." 

"I'm  sure  of  it,  Mr.  Stanley,"  I  said, 
"but  I  can't  stay  with  you." 

At  that  the  tide  of  curiosity  which  I  had 
seen  rising  ever  since  I  came  began  to  break 
through.  Oh,  I  know  how  difficult  it  is  to 
let  the  wanderer  get  by  without  taking  toll 
of  him!  There  are  not  so  many  people 
here  in  the  country  that  we  can  afford  to 
neglect  them.  And  as  I  had  nothing  in 
the  world  to  conceal,  and,  indeed,  loved 
nothing  better  than  the  give  and  take  of 
getting  acquainted,  we  were  soon  at  it  in 
good  earnest. 

But  it  was  not  enough  to  tell  them  that 
my  name  was  David  Grayson  and  where 
my  farm  was  located,  and  how  many  acres 
there  were,  and  how  much  stock  I  had,  and 
what  I  raised.  The  great  particular  "Why?" 
—  as  I  knew  it  would  be  —  concerned  my 
strange  presence  on  the  road  at  this  season 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  39 

of  the  year  and  the  reason  why  I  should  turn 
in  by  chance,  as  I  had  done,  to  help  at  their 
planting.  If  a  man  is  stationary,  it  seems 
quite  impossible  for  him  to  imagine  why 
any  one  should  care  to  wander;  and  as  for 
the  wanderer  it  is  inconceivable  to  him 
how  any  one  can  remain  permanently  at 
home. 

We  were  all  sitting  comfortably  around 
the  table  in  the  living-room.  The  lamps 
were  lighted,  and  Mr.  Stanley,  in  slippers, 
was  smoking  his  pipe  and  Mrs.  Stanley 
was  darning  socks  over  a  mending-gourd, 
and  the  two  young  Stanleys  were  whis- 
pering and  giggling  about  some  matter  of 
supreme  consequence  to  youth.  The  win- 
dows were  open,  and  we  could  smell  the  sweet 
scent  of  the  lilacs  from  the  yard  and  hear  the 
drumming  of  the  rain  as  it  fell  on  the  roof  of 
the  porch. 

"It's  easy  to  explain,"  I  said.  "The 
fact  is,  it  got  to  the  point  on  my  farm  that 
I  wasn't  quite  sure  whether  I  owned  it  or 
it  owned  me.  And  I  made  up  my  mind 
I'd  get  away  for  a  while  from  my  own  horses 
and  cattle  and  see  what  the  world  was  like. 
I  wanted  to  see  how  people  lived  up  here, 


40  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

and  what  they  are  thinking  about,  and  how 
they  do  their  farming." 

As  I  talked  of  my  plans  and  of  the  duty 
one  had,  as  I  saw  it,  to  be  a  good  broad 
man  as  well  as  a  good  farmer,  I  grew  more 
and  more  interested  and  enthusiastic.  Mr. 
Stanley  took  his  pipe  slowly  from  his  mouth, 
held  it  poised  until  it  finally  went  out, 
and  sat  looking  at  me  with  a  rapt  expression. 
I  never  had  a  better  audience.  Finally,  Mr. 
Stanley  said  very  earnestly: 

"And  you  have  felt  that  way,  too?" 

"Why,  father!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Stanley, 
in  astonishment. 

Mr.  Stanley  hastily  put  his  pipe  back 
into  his  mouth  and  confusedly  searched 
in  his  pockets  for  a  match;  but  I  knew 
I  had  struck  down  deep  into  a  common 
experience.  Here  was  this  brisk  and 
prosperous  farmer  having  his  dreams 
too  —  dreams  that  even  his  wife  did  not 
know! 

So  I  continued  my  talk  with  even  greater 
fervour.  I  don't  think  that  the  boy  Ben 
understood  all  that  I  said,  for  I  was  dealing 
with  experiences  common  mostly  to  older 
men,  but  he  somehow  seemed  to  get  the 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  41 

spirit  of  it,  for  quite  unconsciously  he  began 
to  hitch  his  chair  toward  me,  then  he  laid 
his  hand  on  my  chair-arm  and  finally  and 
quite  simply  he  rested  his  arm  against  mine 
and  looked  at  me  with  all  his  eyes.  I  keep 
learning  that  there  is  nothing  which  reaches 
men's  hearts  like  talking  straight  out  the 
convictions  and  emotions  of  your  innermost 
soul.  Those  who  hear  you  may  not  agree 
with  you,  or  they  may  not  understand  you 
fully,  but  something  incalculable,  something 
vital,  passes.  And  as  for  a  boy  or  girl  it 
is  one  of  the  sorriest  of  mistakes  to  talk  down 
to  them;  almost  always  your  lad  of  fifteen 
thinks  more  simply,  more  fundamentally, 
than  you  do;  and  what  he  accepts  as  good 
coin  is  not  facts  or  precepts,  but  feelings 
and  convictions  —  life .  And  why  shouldn't 
we  speak  out? 

"I  long  ago  decided,"  I  said,  "to  try  to 
be  fully  what  I  am  and  not  to  be  anything 
or  anybody  else." 

"That's  right,  that's  right!"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Stanley,  nodding  his  head  vigorously. 

"It's  about  the  oldest  wisdom  there  is," 
I  said,  and  with  that  I  thought  of  the  volume 
I  carried  in  my  pocket,  and  straightway  I 


42  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

pulled  it  out  and  after  a  moment's  search 
found  the  passage  I  wanted. 

"Listen,"  I  said,  "to  what  this  old  Roman 
philosopher  said"  —  and  I  held  the  book  up 
to  the  lamp  and  read  aloud: 

"'You  can  be  invincible  if  you  enter  into 
no  contest  in  which  it  is  not  in  your  power 
to  conquer.  Take  care,  then,  when  you 
observe  a  man  honoured  before  others  or 
possessed  of  great  power,  or  highly  esteemed 
for  any  reason,  not  to  suppose  him  happy 
and  be  not  carried  away  by  the  appearance. 
For  if  the  nature  of  the  good  is  in  our  power, 
neither  envy  nor  jealousy  will  have  a  place  in 
us.  But  you  yourself  will  not  wish  to  be  a 
general  or  a  senator  or  consul,  but  a  free  man, 
and  there  is  only  one  way  to  do  this,  to  care 
not  for  the  things  which  are  not  in  our 
power." 

"That,"  said  Mr.  Stanley  triumphantly, 
"is  exactly  what  I've  always  said,  but  I 
didn't  know  it  was  in  any  book.  I  always 
said  I  didn't  want  to  be  a  senator  or  a  legis- 
lator, or  any  other  sort  of  office-holder.  It's 
good  enough  for  me  right  here  on  this  farm." 

At  that  moment  I  glanced  down  into 
Ben's  shining  eyes. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  43 

"But  I  want  to  be  a  senator  or  —  some- 
thing —  when  I  grow  up,"  he  said  eagerly. 

At  this  the  older  brother,  who  was  sitting 
not  far  off,  broke  into  a  laugh,  and  the  boy, 
who  for  a  moment  had  been  drawn  out  of 
his  reserve,  shrank  back  again  and  coloured 
to  the  hair. 

"Well,  Ben,"  said  I,  putting  my  hand  on 
his  knee,  "don't  you  let  anything  stop  you. 
I'll  back  you  up;  I'll  vote  for  you." 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning  Mr. 
Stanley  drew  me  aside  and  said: 

"Now  I  want  to  pay  you  for  your  help 
yesterday  and  the  day  before." 

"No,"  I  said.  "I've  had  more  than  value 
received.  You've  taken  me  in  like  a  friend 
and  brother.  I've  enjoyed  it." 

So  Mrs.  Stanley  half  filled  my  knapsack 
with  the  finest  luncheon  I've  seen  in  many  a 
day,  and  thus,  with  as  pleasant  a  farewell  as 
if  I'd  been  a  near  relative,  I  set  off  up  the 
country  road.  I  was  a  little  distressed  in 
parting  to  see  nothing  of  the  boy  Ben,  for 
I  had  formed  a  genuine  liking  for  him,  but 
upon  reaching  a  clump  of  trees  which  hid 
the  house  from  the  road  I  saw  him  standing 
in  the  moist  grass  of  a  fence  corner. 


44  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"I  want  to  say  good-bye,"  he  said  in  the 
gruff  voice  of  embarrassment. 

"Ben,"  I  said,  "I  missed  you,  and  I'd 
have  hated  to  go  off  without  seeing  you 
again.  Walk  a  bit  with  me." 

So  we  walked  side  by  side,  talking  quietly, 
and  when  at  last  I  shook  his  hand  I  said : 

"Ben,  don't  you  ever  be  afraid  of  acting 
up  to  the  very  best  thoughts  you  have  in 
your  heart." 

He  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  and  then: 
"Gee!  I'm  sorry  you're  goin'  away!" 

"Gee!"  I  responded,  "I'm  sorry,  too!" 

With  that  we  both  laughed,  but  when 
I  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  looked 
back,  I  saw  him  still  standing  there  bare- 
footed in  the  road  looking  after  me.  I  waved 
my  hand  and  he  waved  his:  and  I  saw  him 
no  more. 

No  country,  after  all,  produces  any  better 
crop  than  its  inhabitants.  And  as  I  trav- 
elled onward  I  liked  to  think  of  these  brave, 
temperate,  industrious,  God-friendly  Ameri- 
can people.  I  have  no  fear  of  the  country 
while  so  many  of  them  are  still  to  be  found 
upon  the  farms  and  in  the  towns  of  this  land. 

So  I  tramped  onward  full  of  cheerfulness. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  45 

The  rain  had  ceased,  but  all  the  world  was 
moist  and  very  green  and  still.  I  walked 
for  more  than  two  hours  with  the  greatest 
pleasure.  About  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning 
I  stopped  near  a  brook  to  drink  and  rest,  for 
I  was  warm  and  tired.  And  it  was  then  that 
I  bethought  me  of  the  little  tin  pipe  in  my 
knapsack,  and  straightway  I  got  it  out,  and, 
sitting  down  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  near  the 
brook,  I  put  it  to  my  lips  and  felt  for  the 
stops  with  unaccustomed  fingers.  At  first 
I  made  the  saddest  sort  of  work  of  it,  and 
was  not  a  little  disappointed,  indeed,  with 
the  sound  of  the  whistle  itself.  It  was 
nothing  to  my  memory  of  it!  It  seemed  thin 
and  tinny. 

However,  I  persevered  at  it,  and  soon 
produced  a  recognizable  imitation  of  Tom 
Madison's  "Old  Dan  Tucker."  My  suc- 
cess quite  pleased  me,  and  I  became  so 
absorbed  that  I  quite  lost  account  of  the 
time  and  place.  There  was  no  one  to  hear  me 
save  a  bluejay  which  for  an  hour  or  more 
kept  me  company.  He  sat  on  a  twig  just 
across  the  brook,  cocking  his  head  at  me,  and 
saucily  wagging  his  tail.  Occasionally  he 
would  dart  away  among  the  trees  crying 


46  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

shrilly;  but  his  curiosity  would  always  get 
the  better  of  him  and  back  he  would  come 
again  to  try  to  solve  the  mystery  of  this 
rival  whistling,  which  I'm  sure  was  as  shrill 
and  as  harsh  as  his  own. 

Presently,  quite  to  my  astonishment,  I 
saw  a  man  standing  near  the  brookside 
not  a  dozen  paces  away  from  me.  How 
long  he  had  been  there  I  don't  know,  for 
I  had  heard  nothing  of  his  coming.  Be- 
yond him  in  the  town  road  I  could  see  the 
head  of  his  horse  and  the  top  of  his  buggy. 
I  said  not  a  word,  but  continued  with  my 
practising.  Why  shouldn't  I?  But  it  gave 
me  quite  a  thrill  for  the  moment;  and  at 
once  I  began  to  think  of  the  possibilities 
of  the  situation.  What  a  thing  it  was  to 
have  so  many  unexpected  and  interesting 
situations  developing!  So  I  nodded  my  head 
and  tapped  my  foot,  and  blew  into  my 
whistle  all  the  more  energetically.  I  knew 
my  visitor  could  not  possibly  keep  away. 
And  he  could  not;  presently  he  came  nearer 
and  said: 

"What  are  you  doing,  neighbour?" 
I    continued    a    moment    with    my    play- 
ing,   but    commanded    him    with    my    eye. 


"WHAT  ARE  YOU  DOING,  NEIGHBOUR? : 


48  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

Oh,  I  assure  you  I  assumed  all  the  airs  of 
a  virtuoso.  When  I  had  finished  my  tune 
I  removed  my  whistle  deliberately  and  wiped 
my  lips. 

"Why,  enjoying  myself,"  I  replied  with 
greatest  good  humour.  "What  are  you  do- 
ing?" 

"Why,"  he  said,  "watching  you  enjoy 
yourself.  I  heard  you  playing  as  I  passed 
in  the  road,  and  couldn't  imagine  what  it 
could  be." 

I  told  him  I  thought  it  might  still  be 
difficult,  having  heard  me  near  at  hand, 
to  imagine  what  it  could  be  —  and  thus, 
tossing  the  ball  of  good-humoured  repar- 
tee back  and  forth,  we  walked  down  to  the 
road  together.  He  had  a  quiet  old  horse  and 
a  curious  top  buggy  with  the  unmistakable 
box  of  an  agent  or  peddler  built  on  behind. 

"My  name,"  he  said,  "is  Canfield.  I 
fight  dust." 

"And  mine,"  I  said,  "is  Grayson.  I 
whistle." 

I  discovered  that  he  was  an  agent  for 
brushes,  and  he  opened  his  box  and  showed 
me  the  greatest  assortment  of  big  and  little 
brushes:  bristle  brushes,  broom  brushes,  yarn 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  49 

brushes,  wire  brushes,  brushes  for  man  and 
brushes  for  beast,  brushes  of  every  conceivable 
size  and  shape  that  ever  I  saw  in  all  my 
life.  He  had  out  one  of  his  especial  pets  — 
he  called  it  his  "leader"  —  and  feeling  it 
familiarly  in  his  hand  he  instinctively  began 
the  jargon  of  well-handled  and  voice- worn 
phrases  which  went  with  that  particular 
brush.  It  was  just  as  though  some  one  had 
touched  a  button  and  had  started  him  going. 
It  was  amazing  to  me  that  any  one  in  the 
world  should  be  so  much  interested  in  mere 
brushes  —  until  he  actually  began  to  make 
me  feel  that  brushes  were  as  interesting  as 
anything  else! 

What  a  strange,  little,  dried-up  old  fellow 
he  was,  with  his  balls  of  muttonchop  side- 
whiskers,  his  thick  eyebrows,  and  his  lively 
blue  eyes !  —  a  man  evidently  not  readily 
turned  aside  by  rebuffs.  He  had  already 
shown  that  his  wit  as  a  talker  had  been 
sharpened  by  long  and  varied  contact  with  a 
world  of  reluctant  purchasers.  I  was  really 
curious  to  know  more  of  him,  so  I  said  finally: 

"See  here,  Mr.  Canfield,  it's  just  noon. 
Why  not  sit  down  here  with  me  and  have 
a  bit  of  luncheon?" 


So  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"Why  not?"  he  responded  with  alacrity. 
"As  the  fellow  said,  why  not?" 

He  unhitched  his  horse,  gave  him  a  drink 
from  the  brook,  and  then  tethered  him  where 
he  could  nip  the  roadside  grass.  I  opened 
my  bag  and  explored  the  wonders  of  Mrs. 
Stanley's  luncheon.  I  cannot  describe  the 
absolutely  carefree  feeling  I  had.  Always 
at  home,  when  I  would  have  liked  to  stop 
at  the  roadside  with  a  stranger,  I  felt  the 
nudge  of  a  conscience  troubled  with  cows 
and  corn,  but  here  I  could  stop  where  I 
liked,  or  go  on  when  I  liked,  and  talk  with 
whom  I  pleased,  as  long  as  I  pleased. 

So  we  sat  there,  the  brush-peddler  and 
I,  under  the  trees,  and  ate  Mrs.  Stanley's 
fine  luncheon,  drank  the  clear  water  from 
the  brook,  and  talked  great  talk.  Com- 
pared with  Mr.  Canfield  I  was  a  babe  at 
wandering  —  and  equally  at  talking.  Was 
there  any  business  he  had  not  been  in,  or 
any  place  in  the  country  he  had  not  visited? 
He  had  sold  everything  from  fly-paper  to 
threshing-machines,  he  had  picked  up  a 
large  working  knowledge  of  the  weaknesses 
of  human  nature,  and  had  arrived  at  the 
age  of  sixty-six  with  just  enough  available 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  51 

cash  to  pay  the  manufacturer  for  a  new  supply 
of  brushes.  In  strict  confidence,  I  drew 
certain  conclusions  from  the  colour  of  his 
nose!  He  had  once  had  a  family,  but 
dropped  them  somewhere  along  the  road. 
Most  of  our  brisk  neighbours  would  have 
put  him  down  as  a  failure  —  an  old  man, 
and  nothing  laid  by!  But  I  wonder  —  I 

wonder One  thing  I  am  coming  to  learn 

in  this  world,  and  that  is  to  let  people  haggle 
along  with  their  lives  as  I  haggle  along  with 
mine. 

We  both  made  tremendous  inroads  on 
the  luncheon,  and  I  presume  we  might 
have  sat  there  talking  all  the  afternoon  if 
I  had  not  suddenly  bethought  myself  with 
a  not  unpleasant  thrill  that  my  resting- 
place  for  the  night  was  still  gloriously  un- 
decided. 

"Friend,"  I  said,  "I've  got  to  be  up  and 
going.  I  haven't  so  much  as  a  penny  in 
my  pocket,  and  I've  got  to  find  a  place 
to  sleep." 

The  effect  of  this  remark  upon  Mr.  Can- 
field  was  magical.  He  threw  up  both  his 
hands  and  cried  out: 

"You're  that  way,  are  you?"  —  as  though 


52  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

for  the  first  time  he  really  understood.  We 
were  at  last  on  common  ground. 

"Partner,"  said  he,  "you  needn't  tell  me 
nothin'  about  it.  I've  been  right  there 
myself." 

At  once  he  began  to  bustle  about  with 
great  enthusiasm.  He  was  for  taking  com- 
plete charge  of  me,  and  I  think,  if  I  had 
permitted  it,  would  instantly  have  made  a 
brush-agent  of  me.  At  least  he  would  have 
carried  me  along  with  him  in  his  buggy;  but 
when  he  suggested  it  I  felt  very  much,  I 
think,  as  some  old  monk  must  have  felt 
who  had  taken  a  vow  to  do  some  particular 
thing  in  some  particular  way.  With  great 
difficulty  I  convinced  him  finally  that  my 
way  was  different  from  his  —  though  he  was 
regally  impartial  as  to  what  road  he  took 
next  —  and,  finally,  with  some  reluctance, 
he  started  to  climb  into  his  buggy. 

A  thought,  however,  struck  him  suddenly, 
and  he  stepped  down  again,  ran  around  to 
the  box  at  the  back  of  his  buggy,  opened  it 
with  a  mysterious  and  smiling  look  at  me, 
and  took  out  a  small  broom-brush  with 
which  he  instantly  began  brushing  off  my 
coat  and  trousers  —  in  the  liveliest  and  most 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  53 

exuberant  way.  When  he  had  finished  this 
occupation,  he  quickly  handed  the  brush  to 
me. 

"A  token  of  esteem,"  he  said,  "from  a 
fellow  traveller." 

I  tried  in  vain  to  thank  him,  but  he  held 
up  his  hand,  scrambled  quickly  into  his 
buggy,  and  was  for  driving  off  instantly, 
but  paused  and  beckoned  me  toward  him. 
When  I  approached  the  buggy,  he  took  hold 
of  one  the  lapels  of  my  coat,  bent  over, 
and  said  with  the  utmost  seriousness: 

"No  man  ought  to  take  the  road  with- 
out a  brush.  A  good  broom-brush  is  the 
world's  greatest  civilizer.  Are  you  looking 
seedy  or  dusty?  —  why,  this  here  brush 
will  instantly  make  you  a  respectable  citi- 
zen. Take  my  word  for  it,  friend,  never 
go  into  any  strange  house  without  stoppin' 
and  brushin'  off.  It's  money  in  your  purse! 
You  can  get  along  without  dinner  sometimes, 
or  even  without  a  shirt,  but  without  a  brush 
—  never!  There's  nothin'  in  the  world  so 
necessary  to  rich  an*  poor,  old  an9  young 
as  a  good  brush!" 

And  with  a  final  burst  of  enthusiasm 
the  brush-peddler  drove  off  up  the  hill- 


54 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 


I  stood  watching  him  and  when  he  looked 
around  I  waved  the  brush  high  over  my 
head  in  token  of  a  grateful  farewell. 

It  was  a  good,  serviceable,  friendly  brush. 
I  carried  it  throughout  my  wanderings;  and 
as  I  sit  here  writing  in  my  study,  at  this 
moment,  I  can  see  it  hanging  on  a  hook  at 
the  side  of  my  fireplace. 


THE  HOUSE  BY  THE  SIDE 
OF  THE  ROAD 


-^ssi*.  •  .     ^  i   ~_     •'  V<3J-1 


CHAPTER    III 

THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SIDE    OF 
THE    ROAD 

EVERY  one,"  remarks  Tristram   Shandy, 
"will  speak  of  the  fair  as  his  own  market 
has  gone  in  it." 

It  came  near  being  a  sorry  fair  for  me 
on  the  afternoon  following  my  parting  with 
the  amiable  brush-peddler.  The  plain  fact 
is,  my  success  at  the  Stanleys',  and  the  easy 
manner  in  which  I  had  fallen  in  with  Mr. 
Canfield,  gave  me  so  much  confidence  in 
myself  as  a  sort  of  Master  of  the  Road  that 
I  proceeded  with  altogether  too  much  as- 
surance. 

57 


58  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

I  am  firmly  convinced  that  the  prime 
quality  to  be  cultivated  by  the  pilgrim  is 
humility  of  spirit;  he  must  be  willing  to 
accept  Adventure  in  whatever  garb  she 
chooses  to  present  herself.  He  must  be 
able  to  see  the  shining  form  of  the  unusual 
through  the  dull  garments  of  the  normal. 

The  fact  is,  I  walked  that  afternoon 
with  my  head  in  air  and  gassed  many  a 
pleasant  farmstead  where  men  were  work- 
ing in  the  fields,  and  many  an  open  door- 
way, and  a  mill  or  two,  and  a  town  —  always 
looking  for  some  Great  Adventure. 

Somewhere  upon  this  road,  I  thought  to 
myself,  I  shall  fall  in  with  a  Great  Person, 
or  become  a  part  of  a  Great  Incident.  I 
recalled  with  keen  pleasure  the  experience 
of  that  young  Spanish  student  of  whom 
Carlyle  writes  in  one  of  his  volumes,  who, 
riding  out  from  Madrid  one  day,  came  un- 
expectedly upon  the  greatest  man  in  the 
world.  This  great  man,  of  whom  Carlyle 
observes  (I  have  looked  up  the  passage 
since  I  came  home),  "a  kindlier,  meeker,  or 
braver  heart  has  seldom  looked  upon  the 
sky  in  this  world,"  had  ridden  out  from 
the  city  for  the  last  time  in  his  life  "to 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  59 

take  one  other  look  at  the  azure  firmament 
and  green  mosaic  pavements  and  the  strange 
carpentry  and  arras  work  of  this  noble  pal- 
ace of  a  world." 

As  the  old  story  has  it,  the  young  student 
"came  pricking  on  hastily,  complaining  that 
they  went  at  such  a  pace  as  gave  him  little 
chance  of  keeping  up  with  them.  One  of 
the  party  made  answer  that  the  blame  lay 
with  the  horse  of  Don  Miguel  de  Cervantes, 
whose  trot  was  of  the  speediest.  He  had 
hardly  pronounced  the  name  when  the  stu- 
dent dismounted  and,  touching  the  hem  of 
Cervantes'  left  sleeve,  said,  'Yes,  yes,  it  is 
indeed  the  maimed  perfection,  the  all-famous, 
the  delightful  writer,  the  joy  and  darling  of 
the  Muses !  You  are  that  brave  Miguel.' " 

It  may  seem  absurd  to  some  in  this  cool 
and  calculating  twentieth  century  that  any 
one  should  indulge  in  such  vain  imaginings 
as  I  have  described  —  and  yet,  why  not? 
All  things  are  as  we  see  them.  I  once  heard 
a  man  —  a  modern  man,  living  to-day  — 
tell  with  a  hush  in  his  voice,  and  a  peculiar 
light  in  his  eye,  how,  walking  in  the  outskirts 
of  an  unromantic  town  in  New  Jersey,  he 
came  suddenly  upon  a  vigorous,  bearded, 


60  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

rather  rough-looking  man  swinging  his  stick 
as  he  walked,  and  stopping  often  at  the 
roadside  and  often  looking  up  at  the  sky. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  curious  thrill  in 
his  voice  as  he  said: 

"And  that  was  Walt  Whitman." 

And  thus  quite  absurdly  intoxicated  by 
the  possibilities  of  the  road,  I  let  the  big, 
full  afternoon  slip  by  —  I  let  slip  the  rich 
possibilities  of  half  a  hundred  farms  and 
scores  of  travelling  people  —  and  as  evening 
began  to  fall  I  came  to  a  stretch  of  wilder 
country  with  wooded  hills  and  a  dashing 
stream  by  the  roadside.  It  was  a  fine  and 
beautiful  country  —  to  look  at  —  but  the 
farms,  and  with  them  the  chances  of  dinner, 
and  a  friendly  place  to  sleep,  grew  momen- 
tarily scarcer.  Upon  the  hills  here  and  there, 
indeed,  were  to  be  seen  the  pretentious 
summer  homes  of  rich  dwellers  from  the 
cities,  but  I  looked  upon  them  with  no  great 
hopefulness. 

"Of  all  places  in  the  world,"  I  said  to 
myself,  "surely  none  could  be  more  unfriendly 
to  a  man  like  me." 

But  I  amused  myself  with  conjectures 
as  to  what  might  happen  (until  the  adven- 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  61 

ture  seemed  almost  worth  trying)  if  a  dusty 
man  with  a  bag  on  his  back  should  appear 
at  the  door  of  one  of  those  well-groomed 
establishments.  It  came  to  me,  indeed,  with 
a  sudden  deep  sense  of  understanding,  that 
I  should  probably  find  there,  as  everywhere 
else,  just  men  and  women.  And  with  that 
I  fell  into  a  sort  of  Socratic  dialogue  with 
myself: 

ME:  Having  decided  that  the  people  in 
these  houses  are,  after  all,  merely  men  and 
women,  what  is  the  best  way  of  reaching  them  ? 

MYSELF:  Undoubtedly  by  giving  them 
something  they  want  and  have  not. 

ME:  But  these  are  rich  people  from  the 
city;  what  can  they  want  that  they  have  not? 

MYSELF:  Believe  me,  of  all  people  in  the 
world  those  who  want  the  most  are  those 
who  have  the  most.  These  people  are  also 
consumed  with  desires. 

ME:  And  what,  pray,  do  you  suppose 
they  desire  ? 

MYSELF:  They  want  what  they  have  not 
got;  they  want  the  unattainable:  they  want 
chiefly  the  rarest  and  most  precious  of  all 
things  —  a  little  mystery  in  their  lives. 

"That's    it!"     I    said    aloud;    "that's    it! 


6z  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

Mystery  —  the  things  of  the  spirit,  the  things 
above  ordinary  living — is  not  that  the  essential 
thing  for  which  the  world  is  sighing,  and 
groaning,  and  longing  —  consciously,  or  un- 
consciously?" 

I  have  always  believed  that  men  in  their 
innermost  souls  desire  the  highest,  bravest, 
finest  things  they  can  hear,  or  see,  or  feel  in 
all  the  world.  Tell  a  man  how  he  can  in- 
crease his  income  and  he  will  be  grateful 
to  you  and  soon  forget  you;  but  show  him 
the  highest,  most  mysterious  things  in  his 
own  soul  and  give  him  the  word  which  will 
convince  him  that  the  finest  things  are 
really  attainable,  and  he  will  love  and  follow 
you  always. 

I  now  began  to  look  with  much  excite- 
ment to  a  visit  at  one  of  the  houses  on  the 
hill,  but  to  my  disappointment  I  found  the 
next  two  that  I  approached  still  closed  up, 
for  the  spring  was  not  yet  far  enough  ad- 
vanced to  attract  the  owners  to  the  country. 
I  walked  rapidly  onward  through  the  gather- 
ing twilight,  but  with  increasing  uneasi- 
ness as  to  the  prospects  for  the  night,  and 
thus  came  suddenly  upon  the  scene  of  an 
odd  adventure. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  63 

From  some  distance  I  had  seen  a  verit- 
able palace  set  high  among  the  trees  and 
overlooking  a  wonderful  green  valley  —  and, 
drawing  nearer,  I  saw  evidences  of  well- 
kept  roadways  and  a  visible  effort  to  make 
invisible  the  attempt  to  preserve  the  wild 
beauty  of  the  place.  I  saw,  or  thought  I 
saw,  people  on  the  wide  veranda,  and  I 
was  sure  I  heard  the  snort  of  a  climbing 
motor-car,  but  I  had  scarcely  decided  to 
make  my  way  up  to  the  house  when  I  came, 
at  the  turning  of  the  country  road,  upon  a 
bit  of  open  land  laid  out  neatly  as  a  garden, 
near  the  edge  of  which,  nestling  among  the 
trees,  stood  a  small  cottage.  It  seemed  some- 
how to  belong  to  the  great  estate  above 
it,  and  I  concluded,  at  the  first  glance, 
that  it  was  the  home  of  some  caretaker  or 
gardener. 

It  was  a  charming  place  to  see,  and  espe- 
cially the  plantation  of  trees  and  shrubs. 
My  eye  fell  instantly  upon  a  fine  magnolia  — 
rare  in  this  country  —  which  had  not  yet 
cast  all  its  blossoms,  and  I  paused  for  a 
moment  to  look  at  it  more  closely.  I  my- 
self have  tried  to  raise  magnolias  near  my 
house,  and  I  know  how  difficult  it  is. 


64  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

As  I  approached  nearer  to  the  cottage 
I  could  see  a  man  and  woman  sitting  upon 
the  porch  in  the  twilight  and  swaying  back 
and  forth  in  rocking-chairs.  I  fancied  — 
it  may  have  been  only  a  fancy  —  that  when 
I  first  saw  them  their  hands  were  clasped 
as  they  rocked  side  by  side. 

It  was  indeed  a  charming  little  cottage. 
Crimson  ramblers,  giving  promise  of  the 
bloom  that  was  yet  to  come,  climbed  over 
one  end  of  the  porch,  and  there  were  fine 
dark-leaved  lilac-bushes  near  the  doorway: 
oh,  a  pleasant,  friendly,  quiet  place! 

I  opened  the  front  gate  and  walked  straight 
in,  as  though  I  had  at  last  reached  my  des- 
tination. I  cannot  give  any  idea  of  the 
lift  of  the  heart  with  which  I  entered  upon 
this  new  adventure.  Without  the  slightest 
premeditation  and  not  knowing  what  I  should 
say  or  do,  I  realized  that  everything  depended 
upon  a  few  sentences  spoken  within  the  next 
minute  or  two.  Believe  me,  this  experience, 
to  a  man  who  does  not  know  where  his 
next  meal  is  coming  from,  nor  where  he  is  to 
spend  the  night,  is  well  worth  having.  It 
is  a  marvellous  sharpener  of  the  faculties. 

I   knew,   of  course,  just   how   these   quiet 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  65 

people  of  the  cottage  would  ordinarily  regard 
an  intruder  whose  bag  and  clothing  must  in- 
fallibly class  him  as  a  follower  of  the  road. 
And  so  many  followers  of  the  road  are  — 
well- 

As  I  came  nearer,  the  man  and  woman 
stopped  rocking,  but  said  nothing.  An  old 
dog  that  had  been  sleeping  on  the  top  step 
rose  slowly  and  stood  there. 

"As  I  passed  your  garden,"  I  said,  grasp- 
ing desperately  for  a  way  of  approach, 
"I  saw  your  beautiful  specimen  of  the 
magnolia  tree  —  the  one  still  in  blossom. 
I  myself  have  tried  to  grow  magnolias  — 
but  with  small  success  —  and  I'm  making 
bold  to  inquire  what  variety  you  are  so 
successful  with." 

It  was  a  shot  in  the  air  —  but  I  knew 
from  what  I  had  seen  that  they  must  be 
enthusiastic  gardeners.  The  man  glanced 
around  at  the  magnolia  with  evident  pride, 
and  was  about  to  answer  when  the  woman 
rose  and  with  a  pleasant,  quiet  cordiality 
said: 

"Won't  you  step  up  and  have  a  chair?" 

I  swung  my  bag  from  my  shoulder  and 
took  the  proffered  seat.  As  I  did  so  I  saw, 


66  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

on  the  table  just  behind  me  a  number  of 
magazines  and  books  —  books  of  unusual 
sizes  and  shapes,  indicating  that  they  were 
not  mere  summer  novels. 

"They  like  books!"  I  said  to  myself  with 
a  sudden  rise  of  spirits. 

"I  have  tried  magnolias,  too,"  said  the 
man,  "but  this  is  the  only  one  that  has 
been  really  successful.  It  is  a  Chinese  white 
magnolia." 

"The  one  Downing  describes?"  I  asked. 

This  was  also  a  random  shot,  but  I  con- 
jectured that  if  they  loved  both  books  and 
gardens  they  would  know  Downing  —  the 
Bible  of  the  gardener.  And  if  they  did,  why, 
we  belonged  to  the  same  church. 

"The  very  same,"  exclaimed  the  woman; 
"it  was  Downing' s  enthusiasm  for  the  Chinese 
magnolia  which  led  us  first  to  try  it." 

With  that,  like  true  disciples,  we  fell 
into  great  talk  of  Downing,  at  first  all  in 
praise  of  him,  and  later  —  for  may  not 
the  faithful  be  permitted  latitude  in  their 
comments  so  long  as  it  is  all  within  the 
cloister? — we  indulged  in  a  bit  of  higher 
criticism. 

"It  won't  do,"  said  the  man,   "to  follow 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  67 

too  slavishly  every  detail  of  practice  as  rec- 
ommended by  Downing.  We  have  learned 
a  good  many  things  since  the  forties." 

"The  fact  is,"  I  said,  "no  literal-minded 
man  should  be  trusted  with  Downing." 

"Any  more  than  with  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures," exclaimed  the  woman. 

"Exactly!"  I  responded  with  the  greatest 
enthusiasm;  "exactly!  We  go  to  him  for 
inspiration,  for  fundamental  teachings,  for 
the  great  literature  and  poetry  of  the  art. 
Do  you  remember,"  I  asked,  "that  passage 
in  which  Downing  quotes  from  some  old 
Chinaman  upon  the  true  secret  of  the  pleas- 
ures of  a  garden ?" 

"Do  we?"  exclaimed  the  man,  jumping 
up  instantly;  "do  we?  Just  let  me  get  the 
book  — " 

With  that  he  went  into  the  house  and 
came  back  immediately  bringing  a  lamp  in 
one  hand  —  for  it  had  grown  pretty  dark  — 
and  a  familiar,  portly,  blue-bound  book  in 
the  other.  While  he  was  gone  the  woman 
said: 

"You  have  touched  Mr.  Vedder  in  his 
weakest  spot." 

"I  know  of  no  combination  in  this  world," 


68  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

said  I,  "so  certain  to  produce  a  happy  heart 
as  good  books  and  a  farm  or  garden." 

Mr.  Vedder,  having  returned,  slipped  on  his 
spectacles,  sat  forward  on  the  edge  of  his 
rocking-chair,  and  opened  the  book  with  pious 
hands. 

"I'll  find  it,"  he  said.  "I  can  put  my 
finger  right  on  it." 

"You'll  find  it,"  said  Mrs.  Vedder,  "in 
the  chapter  on  '  Hedges.' " 

"You  are  wrong,  my  dear,"  he  responded, 
"it  is  in  *  Mistakes  of  Citizens  in  Country 
Life.'" 

He  turned  the  leaves  eagerly. 

"No,"  he  said,  "here  it  is  in  'Rural  Taste.' 
Let  me  read  you  the  passage,  Mr.  " 

"Grayson." 

"  —  Mr.  Grayson.  The  Chinaman's  name 
was  Lieu-tscheu.  'What  is  it,'  asks  this 
old  Chinaman,  'that  we  seek  in  the  pleasure  of 
a  garden?  It  has  always  been  agreed  that 
these  plantations  should  make  men  amends  for 
living  at  a  distance  from  what  would  be 
their  more  congenial  and  agreeable  dwelling- 
place  —  in  the  midst  of  nature,  free  and 
unrestrained.'" 

"That's    it,"  I    exclaimed,   "and    the   old 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  69 

Chinaman  was  right!  A  garden  excuses  civ- 
ilization." 

"It's  what  brought  us  here,"  said  Mrs. 
Vedder. 

With  that  we  fell  into  the  liveliest  dis- 
cussion of  gardening  and  farming  and  coun- 
try life  in  all  their  phases,  resolving  that 
while  there  were  bugs  and  blights,  and 
droughts  and  floods,  yet  upon  the  whole 
there  was  no  life  so  completely  satisfying 
as  life  in  which  one  may  watch  daily  the 
unfolding  of  natural  life. 

A  hundred  things  we  talked  about  freely 
that  had  often  risen  dimly  in  my  own  mind 
almost  to  the  point  —  but  not  quite  —  of 
spilling  over  into  articulate  form.  The  mar- 
vellous thing  about  good  conversation  is 
that  it  brings  to  birth  so  many  half-realized 
thoughts  of  our  own  —  besides  sowing  the 
seed  of  innumerable  other  thought-plants. 
How  they  enjoyed  their  garden,  those  two, 
and  not  only  the  garden  itself,  but  all  the 
lore  and  poetry  of  gardening! 

We  had  been  talking  thus  an  hour  or 
more  when,  quite  unexpectedly,  I  had  what 
was  certainly  one  of  the  most  amusing  ad- 
ventures of  my  whole  life.  I  can  scarcely 


70  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

think  of  it  now  without  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 
I  have  had  pay  for  my  work  in  many  ways, 
but  never  such  a  reward  as  this. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Vedder,  "we 
have  recently  come  across  a  book  which 
is  full  of  the  spirit  of  the  garden  as  we  have 
long  known  it,  although  the  author  is  not 
treating  directly  of  gardens,  but  of  farming  and 
of  human  nature." 

"It  is  really  all  one  subject,"  I  inter- 
rupted. 

"Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Vedder,  "but  many 
gardeners  are  nothing  but  gardeners.  Well, 
the  book  to  which  I  refer  is  called  'Adventures 

in  Contentment,'  and  is  by Why,  by 

a  man  of  your  own  name!" 

With  that  Mr.  Vedder  reached  for  a  book 
—  a  familiar-looking  book  —  on  the  table, 
but  Mrs.  Vedder  looked  at  me.  I  give  you 
my  word,  my  heart  turned  entirely  over, 
and  in  a  most  remarkable  way  righted 
itself  again;  and  I  saw  Roman  candles  and 
Fourth  of  July  rockets  in  front  of  my  eyes. 
Never  in  all  my  experience  was  I  so  com- 
pletely bowled  over.  I  felt  like  a  small  boy 
who  has  been  caught  in  the  pantry  with  one 
hand  in  the  jam-pot  —  and  plenty  of  jam 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  71 

on  his  nose.  And  like  that  small  boy  I 
enjoyed  the  jam,  but  did  not  like  being 
caught  at  it. 

Mr.  Vedder  had  no  sooner  got  the  book 
in  his  hand  than  I  saw  Mrs.  Vedder  rising 
as  though  she  had  seen  a  spectre,  and  pointing 
dramatically  at  me,  she  exclaimed: 

"You  are  David  Grayson!" 

I  can  say  truthfully  now  that  I  know  how 
the  prisoner  at  the  bar  must  feel  when  the 
judge,  leaning  over  his  desk,  looks  at  him 
sternly  and  says : 

"I  declare  you  guilty  of  the  offence  as 

charged,  and  sentence  you "  and  so  on, 

and  so  on. 

Mr.  Vedder  stiffened  up,  and  I  can  see 
him  yet  looking  at  me  through  his  glasses. 
I  must  have  looked  as  foolishly  guilty  as 
any  man  ever  looked,  for  Mr.  Vedder  said 
promptly : 

"Let  me  take  you  by  the  hand,  sir.  We 
know  you,  and  have  known  you  for  a  long 
time." 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  relate  the  conver- 
sation which  followed,  nor  tell  of  the  keen 
joy  I  had  in  it  —  after  the  first  cold  plunge. 
We  found  that  we  had  a  thousand  common 


72  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

interests  and  enthusiasms.  I  had  to  tell 
them  of  my  farm,  and  why  I  had  left  it  tem- 
porarily, and  of  the  experiences  on  the  road. 
No  sooner  had  I  related  what  had  befallen 
me  at  the  Stanleys'  than  Mrs.  Vedder  dis- 
appeared into  the  house  and  came  out  again 
presently  with  a  tray  loaded  with  cold  meat, 
bread,  a  pitcher  of  fine  milk,  and  other  good 
things. 

"I  shall  not  offer  any  excuses,"  said  I, 
"I'm  hungry,"  and  with  that  I  laid  in, 
Mr.  Vedder  helping  with  the  milk,  and  all 
three  of  us  talking  as  fast  as  ever  we  could. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  at  last  Mr. 
Vedder  led  the  way  to  the  immaculate  little 
bedroom  where  I  spent  the  night. 

The  next  morning  I  awoke  early  and, 
quietly  dressing,  slipped  down  to  the  garden 
and  walked  about  among  the  trees  and  the 
shrubs  and  the  flower-beds.  The  sun  was 
just  coming  up  over  the  hill,  the  air  was  full 
of  the  fresh  odours  of  morning,  and  the  orioles 
and  cat-birds  were  singing. 

In  the  back  of  the  garden  I  found  a  charming 
rustic  arbour  with  seats  around  a  little 
table.  And  here  I  sat  down  to  listen  to  the 
morning  concert,  and  I  saw,  cut  or  carved 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  73 

upon  the  table,  this  verse,  which  so   pleased 
me  that  I  copied  it  in  my  book: 

A  garden  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot! 

Rose  plot, 

Fringed  pool, 

Ferned  grot  — 

The][veriest  school  of  peace;  and  yet 
the  fool 

Contends  that  God  is  not  — 
Not  God!  in  gardens?  when  the  even 
is  cool? 

Nay,  but  I  have  a  sign, 
Tis  very  sure  God  walks  in  mine. 

I  looked  about  after  copying  this  verse, 
and  said  aloud: 

"I  like  this  garden:  I  like  these  Vedders." 

And  with  that  I  had  a  moment  of  wild 
enthusiasm. 

"I  will  come,"  I  said,  "and  buy  a  little 
garden  next  them,  and  bring  Harriet,  and 
we  will  live  here  always.  What's  a  farm 
compared  with  a  friend?" 

But  with  that  I  thought  of  the  Scotch 
preacher,  and  of  Horace,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Starkweather,  and  I  knew  I  could  never 
leave  the  friends  at  home. 

"It's    astonishing   how   many  fine   people 


74  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

there  are  in  this  world,"  I  said  aloud;  "one 
can't  escape  them!" 

"Good  morning,  David  Grayson,"  I  heard 
some  one  saying,  and  glancing  up  I  saw  Mrs. 
Vedder  at  the  doorway.  "Are  you  hungry?" 

"I  am  always  hungry,"  I  said. 

Mr.  Vedder  came  out  and  linking  his  arm 
in  mine  and  pointing  out  various  spireas 
and  Japanese  barberries,  of  which  he  was 
very  proud,  we  walked  into  the  house  to- 
gether. 

I  did  not  think  of  it  especially  at  the 
time  —  Harriet  says  I  never  see  anything 
really  worth  while,  by  which  she  means 
dishes,  dresses,  doilies,  and  such  like  — 
but  as  I  remembered  afterward  the  table 
that  Mrs.  Vedder  set  was  wonderfully  dainty 
—  dainty  not  merely  with  flowers  (with 
which  it  was  loaded),  but  with  the  quality 
of  the  china  and  silver.  It  was  plainly  the 
table  of  no  ordinary  gardener  or  caretaker  — 
but  this  conclusion  did  not  come  to  me  until 
afterward,  for  as  I  remember  it,  we  were  in  a 
deep  discussion  of  fertilizers. 

Mrs.  Vedder  cooked  and  served  breakfast 
herself,  and  did  it  with  a  skill  almost  equal 
to  Harriet's  —  so  skilfully  that  the  talk  went 


GLANCING    UP,    I    SAW   MRS.    VEDDER   AT   THE    DOORWAY 


76  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

on  and  we  never  once  heard  the  machinery 
of  service. 

After  breakfast  we  all  went  out  into  the 
garden,  Mrs.  Vedder  in  an  old  straw  hat 
and  a  big  apron,  and  Mr.  Vedder  in  a  pair  of 
old  brown  overalls.  Two  men  had  appeared 
from  somewhere,  and  were  digging  in  the 
vegetable  garden.  After  giving  them  certain 
directions  Mr.  Vedder  and  I  both  found  five- 
tined  forks  and  went  into  the  rose  garden  and 
began  turning  over  the  rich  soil,  while  Mrs. 
Vedder,  with  pruning-shears,  kept  near  us, 
cutting  out  the  dead  wood. 

It  was  one  of  the  charming  forenoons  of 
my  life.  This  pleasant  work,  spiced  with 
the  most  interesting  conversation  and  inter- 
rupted by  a  hundred  little  excursions  into 
other  parts  of  the  garden,  to  see  this  or  that 
wonder  of  vegetation,  brought  us  to  dinner- 
time before  we  fairly  knew  it. 

About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  I 
made  the  next  discovery.  I  heard  first  the 
choking  cough  of  a  big  motor-car  in  the 
country  road,  and  a  moment  later  it  stopped 
at  our  gate.  I  thought  I  saw  the  Vedders 
exchanging  significant  glances.  A  number 
of  merry  young  people  tumbled  out,  and  an 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  77 

especially  pretty  girl  of  about  twenty  came 
running  through  the  garden. 

"Mother,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  must  come 
with  us!" 

"I  can't,  I  can't,"  said  Mrs.  Vedder, 
"the  roses  must  be  pruned  —  and  see!  The 
azaleas  are  coming  into  bloom." 

With  that  she  presented  me  to  her  daughter. 

And,  then,  shortly,  for  it  could  no  longer  be 
concealed,  I  learned  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Vedder  were  not  the  caretakers  but  the  owners 
of  the  estate  and  of  the  great  house  I  had 
seen  on  the  hill.  That  evening,  with  an  air 
almost  of  apology,  they  explained  to  me  how 
it  all  came  about. 

"We  first  came  out  here,"  said  Mrs. 
Vedder,  "nearly  twenty  years  ago,  and  built 
the  big  house  on  the  hill.  But  the  more  we 
came  to  know  of  country  life  the  more  we 
wanted  to  get  down  into  it.  We  found  it 
impossible  up  there  —  so  many  unnecessary 
things  to  see  to  and  care  for  —  and  we 
couldn't  —  we  didn't  see " 

"The  fact  is,"  Mr.  Vedder  put  in,  "we 
were  losing  touch  with  each  other." 

"There  is  nothing  like  a  big  house,"  said 
Mrs.  Vedder,  "to  separate  a  man  and  his  wife." 


78  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"So  we  came  down  here,"  said  Mr. 
Vedder,  "built  this  little  cottage,  and  have 
developed  this  garden  mostly  with  our  own 
hands.  We  would  have  sold  the  big  place 
long  ago  if  it  hadn't  been  for  our  friends. 
They  like  it." 

"  I  have  never  heard  a  more  truly  romantic 
story,"  said  I. 

And  it  was  romantic:  these  fine  people 
escaping  from  too  many  possessions,  too  much 
property,  to  the  peace  and  quietude  of  a  gar- 
den where  they  could  be  lovers  again. 

"It  seems,  sometimes,"  said  Mrs.  Vedder, 
"that  I  never  really  believed  in  God  until 
we  came  down  here " 

"I  saw  the  verse  on  the  table  in  your 
arbour,"  said  I. 

"And  it  is  true,"  said  Mr.  Vedder.  "We 
got  a  long,  long  way  from  God  for  many 
years:  here  we  seem  to  get  back  to  Him." 

I  had  fully  intended  to  take  the  road 
again  that  afternoon,  but  how  could  any 
one  leave  such  people  as  those?  We  talked 
again  late  that  night,  but  the  next  morning, 
at  the  leisurely  Sunday  breakfast,  I  set  my 
hour  of  departure  with  all  the  firmness  I 
could  command.  I  left  them,  indeed,  before 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  79 

ten  o'clock  that  forenoon.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  parting.  They  walked  with  me 
to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  there  we  stopped 
and  looked  back.  We  could  see  the  cottage 
half  hidden  among  the  trees,  and  the  little 
opening  that  the  precious  garden  made. 
For  a  time  we  stood  there  quite  silent. 

"Do  you  remember,"  I  said  presently, 
"that  character  in  Homer  who  was  a  friend 
of  men  and  lived  in  a  house  by  the  side  of 
the  road?  I  shall  always  think  of  you  as 
friends  of  men  —  you  took  in  a  dusty  traveller. 
And  I  shall  never  forget  your  house  by  the 
side  of  the  road." 

"The  House  by  the  Side  of  the  Road — 
you  have  christened  it  anew,  David  Grayson," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Vedder. 

And  so  we  parted  like  old  friends,  and 
I  left  them  to  return  to  their  garden,  where 
"  'tis  very  sure  God  walks." 


I  AM  A  SPECTATOR  OF  A  MIGHTY 

BATTLE,  IN  WHICH  CHRISTIAN 

AGAIN  MEETS  APOLLYON 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  AM  A  SPECTATOR  OF  A  MIGHTY 

BATTLE,    IN    WHICH    CHRISTIAN 

AGAIN  MEETS  APOLLYON 

IT  IS  one  of  the  prime  joys  of  the  long  road 
that    no  two  days   are  ever  remotely 
alike  —  no  two  hours  even;  and  sometimes  a 
day  that   begins   calmly  will  end   with   the 
most  stirring  events. 

It  was  thus,  indeed,  with  that  perfect 
spring  Sunday  when  I  left  my  friends,  the 
Vedders,  and  turned  my  face  again  to  the 
open  country.  It  began  as  quietly  as  any 
Sabbath  morning  of  my  life,  but  what  an 
end  it  had!  I  would  have  travelled  a  thou- 
83 


84  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

sand  miles  for  the  adventures  which  a  boun- 
teous road  that  day  spilled  carelessly  into 
my  willing  hands. 

I  can  give  no  adequate  reason  why  it 
should  be  so,  but  there  are  Sunday  mornings 
in  the  spring  —  at  least  in  our  country  — 
which  seem  to  put  on,  like  a  Sabbath  gar- 
ment, an  atmosphere  of  divine  quietude. 
Warm,  soft,  clear,  but,  above  all,  immeas- 
urably serene. 

Such  was  that  Sunday  morning;  and  I 
was  no  sooner  well  afoot  than  I  yielded  to 
the  ingratiating  mood  of  the  day.  Usually 
I  am  an  active  walker,  loving  the  sense  of 
quick  motion  and  the  stir  it  imparts  to 
both  body  and  mind,  but  that  morning  I 
found  myself  loitering,  looking  widely  about 
me,  and  enjoying  the  lesser  and  quieter 
aspects  of  nature.  It  was  a  fine  wooded 
country  in  which  I  found  myself,  and  I  soon 
struck  off  the  beaten  road  and  took  to  the 
forest  and  the  fields.  In  places  the  ground 
was  almost  covered  with  meadow-rue,  like 
green  shadows  on  the  hillsides,  not  yet  in 
seed,  but  richly  umbrageous.  In  the  long 
green  grass  of  the  meadows  shone  the  yellow 
star-flowers,  and  the  sweet-flags  were  bloom- 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  85 

ing  along  the  marshy  edges  of  the  ponds. 
The  violets  had  disappeared,  but  they  were 
succeeded  by  wild  geraniums  and  rank-grow- 
ing vetches. 

I  remember  that  I  kept  thinking  from 
time  to  time,  all  the  forenoon,  as  my  mind 
went  back  swiftly  and  warmly  to  the  two 
fine  friends  from  whom  I  had  so  recently 
parted: 

How  the  Vedders  would  enjoy  this!  Or, 
I  must  tell  the  Vedders  that.  And  two  or 
three  times  I  found  myself  in  animated  con- 
versations with  them  in  which  I  generously 
supplied  all  three  parts.  It  may  be  true 
for  some  natures,  as  Leonardo  said,  that 
"if  you  are  alone  you  belong  wholly  to  your- 
self; if  you  have  a  companion,  you  belong 
only  half  to  yourself";  but  it  is  certainly 
not  so  with  me.  With  me  friendship  never 
divides:  it  multiplies.  A  friend  always  makes 
me  more  than  I  am,  better  than  I  am,  bigger 
than  I  am.  We  two  make  four,  or  fifteen, 
or  forty. 

Well,  I  loitered  through  the  fields  and 
woods  for  a  long  time  that  Sunday  forenoon, 
not  knowing  in  the  least  that  Chance  held 
me  close  by  the  hand  and  was  leading  me 


86  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

onward  to  great  events.  I  knew,  of  course, 
that  I  had  yet  to  find  a  place  for  the  night, 
and  that  this  might  be  difficult  on  Sunday, 
and  yet  I  spent  that  forenoon  as  a  man 
spends  his  immortal  youth  —  with  a  glorious 
disregard  for  the  future. 

Some  time  after  noon  —  for  the  sun  was 
high  and  the  day  was  growing  much  warmer 
—  I  turned  from  the  road,  climbed  an  in- 
viting little  hill,  and  chose  a  spot  in  an  old 
meadow  in  the  shade  of  an  apple  tree,  and 
there  I  lay  down  on  the  grass  and  looked  up 
into  the  dusky  shadows  of  the  branches 
above  me.  I  could  feel  the  soft  airs  on  my 
face;  I  could  hear  the  buzzing  of  bees  in 
the  meadow  flowers,  and  by  turning  my 
head  just  a  little  I  could  see  the  slow  fleecy 
clouds,  high  up,  drifting  across  the  perfect 
blue  of  the  sky.  And  the  scent  of  the  fields 
in  spring!  —  he  who  has  known  it,  even 
once,  may  indeed  die  happy. 

Men  worship  God  in  various  ways:  it 
seemed  to  me  that  Sabbath  morning,  as 
I  lay  quietly  there  in  the  warm  silence  of 
midday,  that  I  was  truly  worshipping  God. 
That  Sunday  morning  everything  about  me 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  87 

seemed  somehow  to  be  a  miracle  —  a  mir- 
acle gratefully  accepted  and  explainable  only 
by  the  presence  of  God.  There  was  another 
strange,  deep  feeling  which  I  had  that  morning, 
which  I  have  had  a  few  other  times  in  my 
life  at  the  rare  heights  of  experience  —  I 
hesitate  always  when  I  try  to  put  down  the 
deep,  deep  things  of  the  human  heart  —  a 
feeling  immeasurably  real,  that  if  I  should 
turn  my  head  quickly  I  should  indeed  see 
that  Immanent  Presence.  .  . 

One  of  the  few  birds  I  know  that  sings 
through  the  long  midday  is  the  vireo.  The 
vireo  sings  when  otherwise  the  woods  are 
still.  You  do  not  see  him;  you  cannot 
find  him;  but  you  know  he  is  there.  And 
his  singing  is  wild,  and  shy,  and  mystical. 
Often  it  haunts  you  like  the  memory  of 
some  former  happiness.  That  day  I  heard 
the  vireo  singing.  .  .  . 

I  don't  know  how  long  I  lay  there  under 
the  tree  in  the  meadow,  but  presently  I 
heard,  from  no  great  distance,  the  sound  of  a 
church-bell.  It  was  ringing  for  the  afternoon 
service  which  among  the  farmers  of  this  part 
of  the  country  often  takes  the  place,  in  sum- 
mer, of  both  morning  and  evening  services. 


88  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"I  believe  I'll  go,"  I  said,  thinking  first 
of  all,  I  confess,  of  the  interesting  people  I 
might  meet  there. 

But  when  I  sat  up  and  looked  about  me 
the  desire  faded,  and  rummaging  in  my  bag 
I  came  across  my  tin  whistle.  Immediately 
I  began  practising  a  tune  called  "Sweet 
Afton,"  which  I  had  learned  when  a  boy; 
and,  as  I  played,  my  mood  changed  swiftly, 
and  I  began  to  smile  at  myself  as  a  tragi- 
cally serious  person,  and  to  think  of  pat 
phrases  with  which  to  characterize  the  ex- 
ecrableness  of  my  attempts  upon  the  tin 
whistle.  I  should  have  liked  some  one  near 
to  joke  with. 

Long  ago  I  made  a  motto  about  boys: 
Look  for  a  boy  anywhere.  Never  be  sur- 
prised when  you  shake  a  cherry  tree  if  a 
boy  drops  out  of  it;  never  be  disturbed 
when  you  think  yourself  in  complete  solitude 
if  you  discover  a  boy  peering  out  at  you  from 
a  fence  corner. 

I  had  not  been  playing  long  before  I 
saw  two  boys  looking  at  me  from  out  of 
a  thicket  by  the  roadside;  and  a  moment 
later  two  others  appeared. 

Instantly     I     switched     into     "Marching 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  89 

Through  Georgia,"  and  began  to  nod  my 
head  and  tap  my  toe  in  the  liveliest  fash- 
ion. Presently  one  boy  climbed  up  on  the 
fence,  then  another,  then  a  third.  I  con- 
tinued to  play.  The  fourth  boy,  a  little 
chap,  ventured  to  climb  up  on  the  fence. 

They  were  bright-faced,  tow-headed  lads, 
all  in  Sunday  clothes. 

"It's  hard  luck,"  said  I,  taking  my  whistle 
from  my  lips,  "to  have  to  wear  shoes  and 
stockings  on  a  warm  Sunday  like  this." 

"You  bet  it  is!"  said  the  bold  leader. 

"In  that  case,"  said  I,  "I  will  play  ' Yan- 
kee Doodle.' " 

I  played.  All  the  boys,  including  the 
little  chap,  came  up  around  me,  and  two 
of  them  sat  down  quite  familiarly  on  the 
grass.  I  never  had  a  more  devoted  audience. 
I  don't  know  what  interesting  event  might 
have  happened  next,  for  the  bold  leader, 
who  stood  nearest,  was  becoming  dangerously 
inflated  with  questions  —  I  don't  know  what 
might  have  happened  had  we  not  been 
interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  a  Spectre 
in  Black.  It  appeared  before  us  there  in 
the  broad  daylight  in  the  middle  of  a  sunny 
afternoon  while  we  were  playing  "Yankee 


90  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

Doodle."  First  I  saw  the  top  of  a  black 
hat  rising  over  the  rim  of  the  hill.  This 
was  followed  quickly  by  a  black  tie,  a  long 
black  coat,  black  trousers,  and,  finally,  black 
shoes.  I  admit  I  was  shaken,  but  being  a 
person  of  iron  nerve  in  facing  such  phenomena 
I  continued  to  play  "Yankee  Doodle."  In 
spite  of  this  counter-attraction,  toward  which 
all  four  boys  turned  uneasy  glances,  I  held 
my  audience.  The  Black  Spectre,  with  a 
black  book  under  its  arm,  drew  nearer. 
Still  I  continued  to  play  and  nod  my  head 
and  tap  my  toe.  I  felt  like  some  modern 
Pied  Piper  piping  away  the  children  of  these 
modern  hills  —  piping  them  away  from  older 
people  who  could  not  understand  them. 

I  could  see  an  accusing  look  on  the  Spec- 
tre's face.  I  don't  know  what  put  it  into 
my  head,  and  I  had  no  sooner  said  it  than 
I  was  sorry  for  my  levity,  but  the  figure 
with  the  sad  garments  there  in  the  matchless 
and  triumphant  spring  day  affected  me  with 
a  curious  sharp  impatience.  Had  any  one 
the  right  to  look  out  so  dolefully  upon  such 
a  day  and  such  a  scene  of  simple  happiness 
as  this?  So  I  took  my  whistle  from  my  lips 
and  asked: 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  91 

"Is  God  dead?" 

I  shall  never  forget  the  indescribable  look 
of  horror  and  astonishment  that  swept  over 
the  young  man's  face. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  he  asked  with 
an  air  of  stern  authority  which  surprised 
me.  His  calling  for  the  moment  lifted  him 
above  himself:  it  was  the  Church  which 
spoke. 

I  was  on  my  feet  in  an  instant,  regret- 
ting the  pain  I  had  given  him;  and  yet  it 
seemed  worth  while  now,  having  made  my 
inadvertent  remark,  to  show  him  frankly 
what  lay  in  my  mind.  Such  things  some- 
times help  men. 

"I  meant  no  offence,  sir,"  I  said,  "and 
I  apologize  for  my  flummery,  but  when 
I  saw  you  coming  up  the  hill,  looking  so 
gloomy  and  disconsolate  on  this  bright 
day,  as  though  you  disapproved  of  God's 
world,  the  question  slipped  out  before  I 
knew  it." 

My  words  evidently  struck  deep  down 
into  some  disturbed  inner  consciousness,  for 
he  asked  —  and  his  words  seemed  to  slip 
out  before  he  thought: 

"Is  that  the  way  I  impressed  you?" 


92  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

I  found  my  heart  going  out  strongly  to- 
ward him.  "Here,"  I  thought  to  myself, 
"is  a  man  in  trouble." 

I  took  a  good  long  look  at  him.  He  was 
still  a  young  man,  though  worn-looking  — 
and  sad,  as  I  now  saw  it,  rather  than  gloomy 
—  with  the  sensitive  lips  and  the  unworldly 
look  one  sees  sometimes  in  the  faces  of 
saints.  His  black  coat  was  immaculately 
neat,  but  the  worn  button-covers  and  the 
shiny  lapels  told  their  own  eloquent  story. 
Oh,  it  seemed  to  me  I  knew  him  as  well  as 
if  every  incident  of  his  life  were  written 
plainly  upon  his  high,  pale  forehead !  I  have 
lived  long  in  a  country  neighbourhood,  and 
I  knew  him  —  poor  flagellant  of  the  rural 
church  —  I  knew  how  he  groaned  under  the 
sins  of  a  community  too  comfortably  will- 
ing to  cast  all  its  burdens  on  the  Lord,  or 
on  the  Lord's  accredited  local  representative. 
I  inferred  also  the  usual  large  family  and  the 
low  salary  (scandalously  unpaid)  and  the  fre- 
quent moves  from  place  to  place. 

Unconsciously  heaving  a  sigh  the  young 
man  turned  partly  aside  and  said  to  me  in  a 
low,  gentle  voice : 

"You  are  detaining  my  boys  from  church." 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  93 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  I  said,  "and  I  will  de- 
tain them  no  longer,"  and  with  that  I  put 
aside  my  whistle,  took  up  my  bag  and  moved 
down  the  hill  with  them. 

"The  fact  is,"  I  said,  "when  I  heard 
your  bell  I  thought  of  going  to  church  my- 
self." 

"Did  you?"  he  asked  eagerly.  "Did 
you?" 

I  could  see  that  my  proposal  of  going 
to  church  had  instantly  affected  his  spirits. 
Then  he  hesitated  abruptly  with  a  sidelong 
glance  at  my  bag  and  rusty  clothing.  I 
could  see  exactly  what  was  passing  in  his 
mind. 

"No,"  I  said,  smiling,  as  though  answering 
a  spoken  question,  "I  am  not  exactly  what 
you  would  call  a  tramp." 

He  flushed. 

"  I  didn't  mean  —  I  want  you  to  come. 
That's  what  a  church  is  for.  If  I  thought " 

But  he  did  not  tell  me  what  he  thought; 
and,  though  he  walked  quietly  at  my  side, 
he  was  evidently  deeply  disturbed.  Some- 
thing of  his  discouragement  I  sensed  even 
then,  and  I  don't  think  I  was  ever  sorrier 
for  a  man  in  my  life  than  I  was  for  him  at 


94  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

that  moment.  Talk  about  the  sufferings  of 
sinners!  I  wonder  if  they  are  to  be  com- 
pared with  the  trials  of  the  saints? 

So  we  approached  the  little  white  church, 
and  caused,  I  am  certain,  a  tremendous 
sensation.  Nowhere  does  the  unpredictable, 
the  unusual,  excite  such  confusion  as  in  that 
settled  institution  —  the  church. 

I  left  my  bag  in  the  vestibule,  where  I 
have  no  doubt  it  was  the  object  of  much 
inquiring  and  suspicious  scrutiny,  and  took 
my  place  in  a  convenient  pew.  It  was  a 
small  church  with  an  odd  air  of  domesticity, 
and  the  proportion  of  old  ladies  and  children 
in  the  audience  was  pathetically  large.  As 
a  ruddy,  vigorous,  out-of-door  person,  with 
the  dust  of  life  upon  him,  I  felt  distinctly 
out  of  place. 

I  could  pick  out  easily  the  Deacon,  the 
Old  Lady  Who  Brought  Flowers,  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  Sewing  Circle,  and,  above  all, 
the  Chief  Pharisee,  sitting  in  his  high  place. 
The  Chief  Pharisee  —  his  name  I  learned 
was  Nash,  Mr.  J.  H.  Nash  (I  did  not  know 
then  that  I  was  soon  to  make  his  acquain- 
tance) —  the  Chief  Pharisee  looked  as  hard 
as  nails,  a  middle-aged  man  with  stiff  white 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  95 

chin-whiskers,  small,  round,  sharp  eyes,  and 
a  pugnacious  jaw. 

"That  man,"  said  I  to  myself,  "runs 
this  church,"  and  instantly  I  found  myself 
looking  upon  him  as  a  sort  of  personification 
of  the  troubles  I  had  seen  in  the  minister's 
eyes. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  ser- 
vice in  detail.  There  was  a  discouraging 
droop  and  quaver  in  the  singing,  and  the 
mournful-looking  deacon  who  passed  the 
collection-plate  seemed  inured  to  disappoint- 
ment. The  prayer  had  in  it  a  note  of  de- 
spairing appeal  which  fell  like  a  cold  hand 
upon  one's  living  soul.  It  gave  one  the 
impression  that  this  was  indeed  a  miserable, 
dark,  despairing  world,  which  deserved  to  be 
wrathfully  destroyed,  and  that  this  miserable 
world  was  full  of  equally  miserable,  broken, 
sinful,  sickly  people. 

The  sermon  was  a  little  better,  for  some- 
where hidden  within  him  this  pale  young 
man  had  a  spark  of  the  divine  fire,  but  it 
was  so  dampened  by  the  atmosphere  of  the 
church  that  it  never  rose  above  a  pale  lumi- 
nosity. 

I  found  the  service  indescribably  depress- 


96  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

ing.  I  had  an  impulse  to  rise  up  and  cry 
out  —  almost  anything  to  shock  these  people 
into  opening  their  eyes  upon  real  life.  In- 
deed, though  I  hesitate  about  setting  it  down 
here,  I  was  filled  for  some  time  with  the  live- 
liest imaginings  of  the  following  serio-comic 
enterprise: 

I  would  step  up  the  aisle,  take  my  place 
in  front  of  the  Chief  Pharisee,  wag  my 
finger  under  his  nose,  and  tell  him  a  thing 
or  two  about  the  condition  of  the  church. 

"The  only  live  thing  here,"  I  would  tell 
him,  "is  the  spark  in  that  pale  minister's 
soul;  and  you're  doing  your  best  to  smother 
that." 

And  I  fully  made  up  my  mind  that  when 
he  answered  back  in  his  chief-pharisaical 
way  I  would  gently  but  firmly  remove  him 
from  his  seat,  shake  him  vigorously  two  or 
three  times  (men's  souls  have  often  been 
saved  with  less!),  deposit  him  flat  in  the 
aisle,  and  —  yes  —  stand  on  him  while  I 
elucidated  the  situation  to  the  audience  at 
large.  While  I  confined  this  amusing  and 
interesting  project  to  the  humours  of  the 
imagination  I  am  still  convinced  that  some- 
thing of  the  sort  would  have  helped  enormously 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  97 

in  clearing  up  the  religious  and  moral  atmos- 
phere of  the  place. 

I  had  a  wonderful  sensation  of  relief 
when  at  last  I  stepped  out  again  into  the 
clear  afternoon  sunshine  and  got  a  reviving 
glimpse  of  the  smiling  green  hills  and  the 
quiet  fields  and  the  sincere  trees  —  and 
felt  the  welcome  of  the  friendly  road. 

I  would  have  made  straight  for  the 
hills,  but  the  thought  of  that  pale  minister 
held  me  back,  and  I  waited  quietly  there 
under  the  trees  till  he  came  out.  He  was 
plainly  looking  for  me,  and  asked  me  to 
wait  and  walk  along  with  him,  at  which  his 
four  boys,  whose  acquaintance  I  had  made 
under  such  thrilling  circumstances  earlier 
in  the  day,  seemed  highly  delighted,  and 
waited  with  me  under  the  tree  and  told  me  a 
hundred  important  things  about  a  certain 
calf,  a  pig,  a  kite,  and  other  things  at  home. 

Arriving  at  the  minister's  gate,  I  was 
invited  in  with  a  whole-heartedness  that 
was  altogether  charming.  The  minister's  wife, 
a  faded-looking  woman  who  had  once  pos- 
sessed a  delicate  sort  of  prettiness,  was 
waiting  for  us  on  the  steps  with  a  fine  chubby 
baby  on  her  arm  —  number  five. 


98  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

The  home  was  much  the  sort  of  place  I 
had  imagined  —  a  small  house  undesirably 
located  (but  cheap!),  with  a  few  straggling 
acres  of  garden  and  meadow  upon  which  the 
minister  and  his  boys  were  trying  with 
inexperienced  hands  to  piece  out  their  in- 
adequate living.  At  the  very  first  glimpse 
of  the  garden  I  wanted  to  throw  off  my  coat 
and  go  at  it. 

And  yet  —  and  yet  —  what  a  wonderful 
thing  love  is!  There  was,  after  all,  some- 
thing incalculable,  something  pervasively 
beautiful  about  this  poor  household.  The 
moment  the  minister  stepped  inside  his 
own  door  he  became  a  different  and  livelier 
person.  Something  boyish  crept  into  his 
manner,  and  a  new  look  came  into  the  eyes  of 
his  faded  wife  that  made  her  almost  pretty 
again.  And  the  fat,  comfortable  baby  rolled 
and  gurgled  about  on  the  floor  as  happily  as 
though  there  had  been  two  nurses  and  a 
governess  to  look  after  him.  As  for  the 
four  boys,  I  have  never  seen  healthier  or 
happier  ones. 

I  sat  with  them  at  their  Sunday-evening 
luncheon.  As  the  minister  bowed  his  head 
to  say  grace  I  felt  him  clasp  my  hand  on 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  99 

one  side  while  the  oldest  boy  clasped  my 
hand  on  the  other,  and  thus,  linked  together, 
and  accepting  the  stranger  utterly,  the  family 
looked  up  to  God. 

There  was  a  fine,  modest  gayety  about 
the  meal.  In  front  of  Mrs.  Minister  stood 
a  very  large  yellow  bowl  filled  with  what 
she  called  rusk  —  a  preparation  unfamiliar 
to  me,  made  by  browning  and  crushing  the 
crusts  of  bread  and  then  rolling  them  down 
into  a  coarse  meal.  A  bowl  of  this,  with 
sweet,  rich,  yellow  milk  (for  they  kept  their 
own  cow),  made  one  of  the  most  appetizing 
dishes  that  ever  I  ate.  It  was  downright 
good:  it  gave  one  the  unalloyed  aroma  of  the 
sweet  new  milk  and  the  satisfying  taste  of  the 
crisp  bread. 

Nor  have  I  ever  enjoyed  a  more  perfect 
hospitality.  I  have  been  in  many  a  richer 
home  where  there  was  not  a  hundredth  part 
of  the  true  gentility  —  the  gentility  of  unapolo- 
gizing  simplicity  and  kindness. 

And  after  it  was  over  and  cleared  away 
—  the  minister  himself  donning  a  long  apron 
and  helping  his  wife  —  and  the  chubby 
baby  put  to  bed,  we  all  sat  around  the  table 
in  the  gathering  twilight. 


ioo         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

I  think  men  perish  sometimes  from  sheer 
untalked  talk.  For  lack  of  a  creative  lis- 
tener they  gradually  fill  up  with  unexpressed 
emotion.  Presently  this  emotion  begins  to 
ferment,  and  finally  —  bang!  —  they  blow 
up,  burst,  disappear  in  thin  air.  In  all  that 
community  I  suppose  there  was  no  one  but 
the  little  faded  wife  to  whom  the  minister 
dared  open  his  heart,  and  I  think  he  found  me 
a  godsend.  All  I  really  did  was  to  look  from 
one  to  the  other  and  put  in  here  and  there 
an  inciting  comment  or  ask  an  understanding 
question.  After  he  had  told  me  his  situa- 
tion and  the  difficulties  which  confronted 
him  and  his  small  church,  he  exclaimed 
suddenly: 

"A  minister  should  by  rights  be  a  leader 
not  only  inside  of  his  church,  but  outside  of 
it  in  the  community." 

"You  are  right,"  I  exclaimed  with  great 
earnestness;  "you  are  right." 

And  with  that  I  told  him  of  our  own 
Scotch  preacher  and  how  he  led  and  moulded 
our  community;  and  as  I  talked  I  could  see 
him  actually  growing,  unfolding,  under  my 
eyes. 

"Why,"  said  I,   "you  not  only  ought  to 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          101 

be  the  moral  leader  of  this  community,  but 
you  are!" 

"That's  what  I  tell  him,"  exclaimed  his 
wife. 

"But  he  persists  in  thinking,  doesn't  he, 
that  he  is  a  poor  sinner?" 

"He  thinks  it  too  much,"  she  laughed. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  as  much  to  himself  as 
to  us,  "a  minister  ought  to  be  a  fighter!" 

It  was  beautiful,  the  boyish  flush  which 
now  came  into  his  face  and  the  light  that 
came  into  his  eyes.  I  should  never  have 
identified  him  with  the  Black  Spectre  of 
the  afternoon. 

"Why,"  said  I,  "  you  are  a  fighter;  you're 
fighting  the  greatest  battle  in  the  world  to- 
day—  the  only  real  battle  —  the  battle  for 
the  spiritual  view  of  life." 

Oh,  I  knew  exactly  what  was  the  trouble 
with  his  religion  —  at  least  the  religion  which, 
under  the  pressure  of  that  church,  he  felt 
obliged  to  preach!  It  was  the  old,  groaning, 
denying,  resisting  religion.  It  was  the  sort 
of  religion  which  sets  a  man  apart  and  assures 
him  that  the  entire  universe  in  the  guise  of 
the  Powers  of  Darkness  is  leagued  against 
him.  What  he  needed  was  a  reviving  draught 


102         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

of  the  new  faith  which  affirms,  accepts,  re- 
joices, which  feels  the  universe  triumphantly 
behind  it.  And  so  whenever  the  minister 
told  me  what  he  ought  to  be  —  for  he  too 
sensed  the  new  impulse  —  I  merely  told  him 
he  was  just  that.  He  needed  only  this  little 
encouragment  to  unfold. 

"Yes,"  said  he  again,  "I  am  the  real  moral 
leader  here." 

At  this  I  saw  Mrs.  Minister  nodding  her 
head  vigorously. 

"It's  you,"  she  said,  "and  not  Mr.  Nash, 
who  should  lead  this  community." 

How  a  woman  loves  concrete  applications! 
She  is  your  only  true  pragmatist.  If  a  phil- 
osophy will  not  work,  says  she,  why  bother 
with  it? 

The  minister  rose  quickly  from  his  chair, 
threw  back  his  head,  and  strode  quickly  up 
and  down  the  room. 

"You  are  right,"  said  he;  "and  I  will 
lead  it.  I'll  have  my  farmers'  meetings  as  I 
planned." 

It  may  have  been  the  effect  of  the  lamp- 
light, but  it  seemed  to  me  that  little  Mrs. 
Minister,  as  she  glanced  up  at  him,  looked 
actually  pretty. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          103 

The  minister  continued  to  stride  up  and 
down  the  room  with  his  chin  in  the  air. 

"Mr.  Nash,"  said  she  in  a  low  voice  to 
me,  "is  always  trying  to  hold  him  down  and 
keep  him  back.  My  husband  wants  to  do 
the  great  things"  — —  wistfully. 

"By  every  right,"  the  minister  was  re- 
peating quite  oblivious  of  our  presence,  "I 
should  lead  this  people." 

"He  sees  the  weakness  of  the  church," 
she  continued,  "as  well  as  any  one,  and  he 
wants  to  start  some  vigorous  community 
work  —  have  agricultural  meetings  and  boys' 
clubs,  and  lots  of  things  like  that  —  but 
Mr.  Nash  says  it  is  no  part  of  a  minister's 
work:  that  it  cheapens  religion.  He  says 
that  when  a  parson  —  Mr.  Nash  always 
calls  him  parson,  and  I  just  loathe  that  name 
—  has  preached,  and  prayed,  and  visited  the 
sick,  that's  enough  for  him" 

At  this  very  moment  a  step  sounded 
upon  the  walk,  and  an  instant  later  a  figure 
appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"Why,  Mr.  Nash,"  exclaimed  little  Mrs. 
Minister,  exhibiting  that  astonishing  gift 
of  swift  recovery  which  is  the  possession 
of  even  the  simplest  women,  "come  right  in." 


104         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

It  was  some  seconds  before  the  minister 
could  come  down  from  the  heights  and 
greet  Mr.  Nash.  As  for  me,  I  was  never 
more  interested  in  my  life. 

"Now,"  said  I  to  myself,  "we  shall  see 
Christian  meet  Apollyon." 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Minister  lighted  the 
lamp  I  was  introduced  to  the  great  man. 
He  looked  at  me  sharply  with  his  small, 
round  eyes,  and  said: 

"Oh,  you  are  the  —  the  man  who  was  in 
church  this  afternoon." 

I  admitted  it,  and  he  looked  around  at 
the  minister  with  an  accusing  expression. 
He  evidently  did  not  approve  of  me,  nor 
could  I  wholly  blame  him,  for  I  knew  well 
how  he,  as  a  rich  farmer,  must  look  upon 
a  rusty  man  of  the  road  like  me.  I  should 
have  liked  dearly  to  cross  swords  with  him 
myself,  but  greater  events  were  imminent. 

In  no  time  at  all  the  discussion,  which 
had  evidently  been  broken  off  at  some 
previous  meeting,  concerning  the  proposed 
farmers'  assembly  at  the  church,  had  taken 
on  a  really  lively  tone.  Mr.  Nash  was 
evidently  in  the  somewhat  irritable  mood 
with  which  important  people  may  sometimes 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD  105 

indulge  themselves,  for  he  bit  off  his  words  in 
a  way  that  was  calculated  to  make  any  but 
an  unusually  meek  and  saintly  man  exceed- 
ingly uncomfortable.  But  the  minister,  with 
the  fine,  high  humility  of  those  whose  passion 
is  for  great  or  true  things,  was  quite  oblivious 
to  the  harsh  words.  Borne  along  by  an 
irresistible  enthusiasm,  he  told  in  glowing 
terms  what  his  plan  would  mean  to  the 
community,  how  the  people  needed  a  new 
social  and  civic  spirit  —  a  "neighbourhood 
religious  feeling"  he  called  it.  And  as  he 
talked,  his  face  flushed  and  his  eyes  shone 
with  the  pure  fire  of  a  great  purpose.  But 
I  could  see  that  all  this  enthusiasm  impressed 
the  practical  Mr.  Nash  as  mere  moonshine. 
He  grew  more  and  more  uneasy.  Finally 
he  brought  his  hand  down  with  a  resound- 
ing thwack  upon  his  knee,  and  said  in  a 
high,  cutting  voice: 

"I  don't  believe  in  any  such  newfangled 
nonsense.  It  ain't  none  of  a  parson's  business 
what  the  community  does.  You're  hired, 
ain't  you,  an '  paid  to  run  the  church  ?  That's 
the  end  of  it.  We  ain't  goin'  to  have  any 
mixin'  of  religion  an'  farmin'  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood." 


io6         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

My  eyes  were  on  the  pale  man  of  God. 
I  felt  as  though  a  human  soul  were  being 
weighed  in  the  balance.  What  would  he  do 
now?  What  was  he  worth  really  as  a  man  as 
well  as  a  minister? 

He  paused  a  moment  with  downcast  eyes. 
I  saw  little  Mrs.  Minister  glance  at  him  — 
once  —  wistfully.  He  rose  from  his  place, 
drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height  —  I  shall 
not  soon  forget  the  look  on  his  face  —  and 
uttered  these  amazing  words : 

"Martha,  bring  the  ginger-jar." 

Mrs.  Minister,  without  a  word,  went  to 
a  little  cupboard  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
room  and  took  down  a  brown  earthenware 
jar,  which  she  brought  over  and  placed  on 
the  table,  Mr.  Nash  following  her  move- 
ments with  astonished  eyes.  No  one  spoke. 

The  minister  took  the  jar  in  his  hands 
as  he  might  the  communion-cup  just  before 
saying  the  prayer  of  the  sacrament. 

"Mr.  Nash,"  said  he  in  a  loud  voice,  "I've 
decided  to  hold  that  farmers'  meeting." 

Before  Mr.  Nash  could  reply  the  minister 
seated  himself  and  was  pouring  out  the 
contents  of  the  jar  upon  the  table  — 
a  clatter  of  dimes,  nickels,  pennies,  a  few 


.  THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          107 

quarters  and  half  dollars,  and  a  very  few 
bills. 

"Martha,  just  how  much  money  is  there 
here?" 

"Twenty-four  dollars  and  sixteen  cents." 

The  minister  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket 
and,  after  counting  out  certain  coins,  said: 

"Here's  one  dollar  and  eighty-four  cents 
more.  That  makes  twenty-six  dollars.  Now, 
Mr.  Nash,  you're  the  largest  contributor 
to  my  salary  in  this  neighbourhood.  You 
gave  twenty-six  dollars  last  year  —  fifty 
cents  a  week.  It  is  a  generous  contribution, 
but  I  cannot  take  it  any  longer.  It  is 
fortunate  that  my  wife  has  saved  up  this 
money  to  buy  a  sewing-machine,  so  that  we 
can  pay  back  your  contribution  in  full." 

He  paused;  no  one  of  us  spoke  a  word. 

"Mr.  Nash,"  he  continued,  and  his  face 
was  good  to  see,  "I  am  the  minister  here. 
I  am  convinced  that  what  the  community 
needs  is  more  of  a  religious  and  social  spirit, 
and  I  am  going  about  getting  it  in  the  way 
the  Lord  leads  me." 

At  this  I  saw  Mrs.  Minister  look  up  at 
her  husband  with  such  a  light  in  her  eyes 
as  any  man  might  well  barter  his  life  for 


io8          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

—  I  could  not  keep  my  own  eyes  from  the 
pure  beauty  of  it. 

I  knew  too  what  this  defiance  meant. 
It  meant  that  this  little  family  was  placing 
its  all  upon  the  altar  —  even  the  pitiful 
coins  for  which  they  had  skimped  and  saved 
for  months  for  a  particular  purpose.  Talk 
of  the  heroism  of  the  men  who  charged 
with  Pickett  at  Gettysburg!  Here  was  a 
courage  higher  and  whiter  than  that;  here 
was  a  courage  that  dared  to  fight  alone. 

As  for  Mr.  Nash,  the  face  of  that  Chief 
Pharisee  was  a  study.  Nothing  is  so  paralyz- 
ing to  a  rich  man  as  to  find  suddenly  that 
his  money  will  no  longer  command  him  any 
advantage.  Like  all  hard-shelled,  practical 
people,  Mr.  Nash  could  only  dominate  in  a 
world  which  recognized  the  same  material 
supremacy  that  he  recognized.  Any  one  who 
insisted  upon  flying  was  lost  to  Mr.  Nash. 

The  minister  pushed  the  little  pile  of 
coins  toward  him. 

"Take  it,  Mr.  Nash,"  said  he. 

At  that  Mr.  Nash  rose  hastily. 

"  I  will  not,"  he  said  grufHy. 

He  paused,  and  looked  at  the  minister 
with  a  strange  expression  in  his  small  round 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 


109 


eyes  —  was  it  anger,  or  was  it  fear,  or  could 
it  have  been  admiration? 

"If   you    want   to    waste    your   time   on 
fiddlin'  farmers'  meetings  —  a  man  that  knows 


HE  TURNED,  REACHED  FOR  HIS  HAT,  AND  THEN  WENT 
OUT  OF  THE  DOOR  INTO  THE  DARKNESS  " 

as   little   of  farmin'   as   you   do  —  why,   go 
ahead  for  all  o'  me.     But  don't  count  me  in." 
He  turned,  reached  for  his  hat,  and  then 
went  out  of  the  door  into  the  darkness. 


i  io         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

For  a  moment  we  all  sat  perfectly  silent, 
then  the  minister  rose,  and  said  solemnly: 

"Martha,  let's  sing  something." 

Martha  crossed  the  room  to  the  cottage 
organ  and  seated  herself  on  the  stool. 

"What  shall  we  sing?"  said  she. 

"Something  with  fight  in  it,  Martha,"  he 
responded;  "something  with  plenty  of  fight 
in  it." 

So  we  sang  "Onward,  Christian  Soldiers, 
Marching  as  to  War,"  and  followed  that 
up  with: 

Awake,  my  soul,  stretch  every  nerve 

And  press  with  vigour  on; 
A  heavenly  race  demands  thy  zeal 

And  an  immortal  crown. 


When  we  had  finished,  and  as  Martha 
rose  from  her  seat,  the  minister  impulsively 
put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  and  said: 

"Martha,  this  is  the  greatest  night  of  my 
life." 

He  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room, 
and  then  with  an  exultant  boyish  laugh 
said: 

"We'll  go  to  town  to-morrow  and  pick 
out  that  sewing-machine!" 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 


in 


I  remained  with  them  that  night  and  part 
of  the  following  day,  taking  a  hand  with 
them  in  the  garden,  but  of  the  events  of 
that  day  I  shall  speak  in  another  chapter. 


I  PLAY  THE  PART  OF  A  SPECTACLE 
PEDDLER 


i£*«y& 


BSBBi:: 


I  PLAY  THE 


CHAPTER  V 

PART  OF  A 
PEDDLER 


SPECTACLE- 


T^ESTERDAY  was  exactly  the  sort  of   a 
A     day  I  love  best  —  a  spicy,    unexpected, 
amusing  day  —  a  day  crowned  with  a  droll 
adventure. 

I  cannot  at  all  account  for  it,  but  it  seems 
to  me  I  take  the  road  each  morning  with  a 
livelier  mind  and  keener  curiosity.  If  you 
were  to  watch  me  narrowly  these  days 
you  would  see  that  I  am  slowly  shedding 
us 


ii6         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

my  years.  I  suspect  that  some  one  of  the 
clear  hill  streams  from  which  I  have  been 
drinking  (lying  prone  on  my  face)  was  in 
reality  the  fountain  of  eternal  youth.  I 
shall  not  go  back  to  see. 

It  seems  to  me,  when  I  feel  like  this, 
that  in  every  least  thing  upon  the  roadside, 
or  upon  the  hill,  lurks  the  stuff  of  adventure. 
What  a  world  it  is!  A  mile  south  of  here 
I  shall  find  all  that  Stanley  found  in  the 
jungles  of  Africa;  a  mile  north  I  am  Peary 
at  the  Pole! 

You  there,  brown-clad  farmer  on  the  tall 
seat  of  your  wagon,  driving  townward  with 
a  red  heifer  for  sale,  I  can  show  you  that  life 
—  your  life  —  is  not  all  a  gray  smudge,  as 
you  think  it  is,  but  crammed,  packed,  loaded 
with  miraculous  things.  I  can  show  you 
wonders  past  belief  in  your  own  soul.  I 
can  easily  convince  you  that  you  are  in 
reality  a  poet,  a  hero,  a  true  lover,  a  saint. 

It  is  because  we  are  not  humble  enough 
in  the  presence  of  the  divine  daily  fact 
that  adventure  knocks  so  rarely  at  our 
door.  A  thousand  times  I  have  had  to 
learn  this  truth  (what  lesson  so  hard  to 
learn  as  the  lesson  of  humility!)  and  I 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          117 

suppose  I  shall  have  to  learn  it  a  thousand 
times  more.  This  very  day,  straining  my  eyes 
to  see  the  distant  wonders  of  the  mountains, 
I  nearly  missed  a  miracle  by  the  roadside. 

Soon  after  leaving  the  minister  and  his 
family  —  I  worked  with  them  in  their  garden 
with  great  delight  most  of  the  forenoon  — 
I  came,  within  a  mile,  to  the  wide  white 
turnpike  —  the  Great  Road. 

Now,  I  usually  prefer  the  little  roads, 
the  little,  unexpected,  curving,  leisurely  coun- 
try roads.  The  sharp  hills,  the  pleasant 
deep  valleys,  the  bridges  not  too  well  kept, 
the  verdure  deep  grown  along  old  fences, 
the  houses  opening  hospitably  at  the  very 
roadside,  all  these  things  I  love.  They 
come  to  me  with  the  same  sort  of  charm  and 
flavour,  only  vastly  magnified,  which  I  find 
often  in  the  essays  of  the  older  writers  — 
those  leisurely  old  fellows  who  took  time  to 
write,  really  write.  The  important  thing 
to  me  about  a  road,  as  about  life  and  litera- 
ture, is  not  that  it  goes  anywhere,  but  that 
it  is  livable  while  it  goes.  For  if  I  were  to 
arrive  —  and  who  knows  that  I  ever  shall 
arrive N^  I  think  I  should  be  no  happier 
than  I  am  here. 


n8          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

Thus  I  have  commonly  avoided  the  Great 
White  Road  —  the  broad,  smooth  turnpike  — 
rock-bottomed  and  rolled  by  a  beneficent 
State  —  without  so  much  as  a  loitering  curve 
to  whet  one's  curiosity,  nor  a  thank-you-ma'am 
to  laugh  over,  nor  a  sinful  hill  to  test  your 
endurance  —  not  so  much  as  a  dreamy  valley! 
It  pursues  its  hard,  unshaded,  practical  way 
directly  from  some  particular  place  to  some 
other  particular  place  —  and  from  time  to 
time  a  motor-car  shoots  in  at  one  end  of  it 
and  out  at  the  other,  leaving  its  dust  to 
settle  upon  quiet  travellers  like  me. 

Thus  to-day  when  I  came  to  the  turn- 
pike I  was  at  first  for  making  straight  across 
it  and  taking  to  the  hills  beyond,  but  at 
that  very  moment  a  motor-car  whirled  past 
me  as  I  stood  there,  and  a  girl  with  a  merry 
face  waved  her  hand  at  me.  I  lifted  my  hat 
in  return,  and  as  I  watched  them  out  of 
sight  I  felt  a  curious  new  sense  of  warmth  and 
friendliness  there  in  the  Great  Road. 

"These  are  just  people,  too,"  I  said  aloud 
—  "and  maybe  they  really  like  it!" 

And  with  that  I  began  laughing  at  myself, 
and  at  the  whole  big,  amazing,  interesting 
world.  Here  was  I  pitying  them  for  their 


/  usually  prefer  the  little  roads,  the  little,  unexpected, 
curving,  leisurely  country  roads." 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          119 

benighted  state,  and  there  were  they,  no 
doubt,  pitying  me  for  mine! 

And  with  that  pleasant  and  satisfactory 
thought  in  my  mind  and  a  song  in  my  throat 
I  swung  into  the  Great  Road. 

"It  doesn't  matter  in  the  least,"  said  I 
to  myself,  "whether  a  man  takes  hold  of  life 
by  the  great  road  or  the  little  ones  so  long  as 
he  takes  hold." 

And  oh,  it  was  a  wonderful  day!  A 
day  with  movement  in  it;  a  day  that  flowed! 
In  every  field  the  farmers  were  at  work, 
the  cattle  fed  widely  in  the  meadows,  and 
the  Great  Road  itself  was  alive  with  a  hundred 
varied  sorts  of  activity.  Light  winds  stirred 
the  tree-tops  and  rippled  in  the  new  grass; 
and  from  the  thickets  I  heard  the  blackbirds 
crying.  Everything  animate  and  inanimate, 
that  morning,  seemed  to  have  its  own  clear 
voice  and  to  cry  out  at  me  for  my  interest, 
or  curiosity,  or  sympathy.  Under  such  cir- 
cumstances it  could  not  have  been  long  — 
nor  was  it  long  —  before  I  came  plump  upon 
the  first  of  a  series  of  odd  adventures. 

A  great  many  people,  I  know,  abominate 
the  roadside  sign.  It  seems  to  them  a  des- 


120         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

ecration  of  nature,  the  intrusion  of  rude 
commercialism  upon  the  perfection  of  natural 
beauty.  But  not  I.  I  have  no  such  feeling. 
Oh,  the  signs  in  themselves  are  often  rude 
and  unbeautiful,  and  I  never  wished  my 
own  barn  or  fences  to  sing  the  praises  of 
swamproot  or  sarsaparilla  —  and  yet  there 
is  something  wonderfully  human  about  these 
painted  and  pasted  vociferations  of  the  road- 
side signs;  and  I  don't  know  why  they  are 
less  "natural"  in  their  way  than  a  house 
or  barn  or  a  planted  field  of  corn.  They 
also  tell  us  about  life.  How  eagerly  they 
cry  out  at  us,  "Buy  me,  buy  me!"  What 
enthusiasm  they  have  in  their  own  concerns, 
what  boundless  faith  in  themselves!  How 
they  speak  of  the  enormous  energy,  activity, 
resourcefulness  of  human  kind! 

Indeed,  I  like  all  kinds  of  signs.  The 
autocratic  warnings  of  the  road,  the  musts 
and  the  must-nots  of  traffic,  I  observe  in 
passing;  and  I  often  stand  long  at  the  cross- 
ings and  look  up  at  the  finger-posts,  and 
consider  my  limitless  wealth  as  a  traveller. 
By  this  road  I  may,  at  my  own  pleasure, 
reach  the  Great  City;  by  that  —  who  knows  ? 
—  the  far  wonders  of  Cathay.  And  I  re- 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          121 

spend  always  to  the  appeal  which  the  devoted 
pilgrim  paints  on  the  rocks  at  the  roadside: 
"Repent  ye,  for  the  kingdom  of  God  is  at 
hand,"  and  though  I  am  certain  that  the 
kingdom  of  God  is  already  here,  I  stop 
always  and  repent  —  just  a  little  —  knowing 
that  there  is  always  room  for  it.  At  the 
entrance  of  the  little  towns,  also,  or  in  the 
squares  of  the  villages,  I  stop  often  to  read 
the  signs  of  taxes  assessed,  or  of  political 
meetings;  I  see  the  evidences  of  homes 
broken  up  in  the  notices  of  auction  sales, 
and  of  families  bereaved  in  the  dry  and 
formal  publications  of  the  probate  court. 
I  pause,  too,  before  the  signs  of  amusements 
flaming  red  and  yellow  on  the  barns  (boys, 
the  circus  is  coming  to  town!),  and  I  pause 
also,  but  no  longer,  to  read  the  silent  signs 
carved  in  stone  in  the  little  cemeteries  as 
I  pass.  Symbols,  you  say?  Why,  they're 
the  very  stuff  of  life.  If  you  cannot  see 
life  here  in  the  wide  road,  you  will  never 
see  it  at  all. 

Well,  I  saw  a  sign  yesterday  at  the  road- 
side that  I  never  saw  anywhere  before. 
It  was  not  a  large  sign  —  indeed  rather 
inconspicuous  —  consisting  of  a  single  word 


122          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

rather  crudely  painted  in  black  (as  by  an 
amateur)  upon  a  white  board.  It  was  nailed 
to  a  tree  where  those  in  swift  passing  cars 
could  not  avoid  seeing  it: 


REST 


I  cannot  describe  the  odd  sense  of  enliven- 
ment,  of  pleasure  I  had  when  I  saw  this  new 
sign. 

"Rest!"  I  exclaimed  aloud.  "Indeed  I 
will,"  and  I  sat  down  on  a  stone  not  far  away. 

"Rest!" 

What  a  sign  for  this  very  spot!  Here 
in  the  midst  of  the  haste  and  hurry  of  the 
Great  Road  a  quiet  voice  was  saying,  "Rest." 
Some  one  with  imagination,  I  thought,  evi- 
dently put  that  up;  some  quietist  offering 
this  mild  protest  against  the  breathless  prog- 
ress of  the  age.  How  often  I  have  felt 
the  same  way  myself  —  as  though  I  were 
being  swept  onward  through  life  faster  than 
I  could  well  enjoy  it.  For  nature  passes  the 
dishes  far  more  rapidly  than  we  can  help 
ourselves. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          123 

Or  perhaps,  thought  I,  eagerly  specu- 
lating, this  may  be  only  some  cunning  ad- 
vertiser with  rest  for  sale  (in  these  days 
even  rest  has  its  price),  thus  piquing  the 
curiosity  of  the  traveller  for  the  disclosure 
which  he  will  make  a  mile  or  so  farther  on. 
Or  else  some  humourist  wasting  his  wit  upon 
the  Fraternity  of  the  Road,  too  willing  (like 
me,  perhaps)  to  accept  his  ironical  advice. 
But  it  would  be  well  worth  while,  should  I 
find  him,  to  see  him  chuckle  behind  his  hand. 

So  I  sat  there,  very  much  interested,  for 
a  long  time,  even  framing  a  rather  amus- 
ing picture  in  my  own  mind  of  the  sort  of 
person  who  painted  these  signs,  deciding 
finally  that  he  must  be  a  zealot  rather  than 
a  trader  or  humourist.  (Confidentially,  I 
could  not  make  a  picture  of  him  in  which  he 
was  not  endowed  with  plentiful  long  hair!) 
As  I  walked  onward  again,  I  decided  that 
in  any  guise  I  should  like  to  see  him,  and  I 
enjoyed  thinking  what  I  should  say  if  I 
met  him.  A  mile  farther  up  the  road  I 
saw  another  sign  exactly  like  the  first. 

"Here  he  is  again,"  I  said  exultantly, 
and  that  sign  being  somewhat  nearer  the 
ground  I  was  able  to  examine  it  carefully 


124         THE   FRIENDLY  ROAD 

front  and  back,  but  it  bore  no  evidence 
of  its  origin. 

In  the  next  few  miles  I  saw  two  other 
signs  with  nothing  on  them  but  the  single 
word  "Rest." 

Now  this  excellent  admonition  —  like  much 
of  the  excellent  admonition  in  this  wrorld  — 
affected  me  perversely:  it  made  me  more 
restless  than  ever.  I  felt  that  I  could  not 
rest  properly  until  I  found  out  who  wanted 
me  to  rest,  and  why.  It  opened  indeed  a 
limitless  vista  for  new  adventure. 

Presently,  away  ahead  of  me  in  the  road, 
I  saw  a  man  standing  near  a  one-horse 
wagon.  He  seemed  to  be  engaged  in  some 
activity  near  the  roadside,  but  I  could  not 
tell  exactly  what.  As  I  hastened  nearer  I 
discovered  that  he  was  a  short,  strongly 
built,  sun-bronzed  man  in  working-clothes 
—  and  with  the  shortest  of  short  hair.  I 
saw  him  take  a  shovel  from  the  wagon  and 
begin  digging.  He  was  the  road-worker. 

I  asked  the  road-worker  if  he  had  seen 
the  curious  signs.  He  looked  up  at  me  with 
a  broad  smile  (he  had  good-humoured,  very 
bright  blue  eyes). 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          125 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "but  they  ain't  for  me." 

"Then  you  don't  follow  the  advice  they 
give?" 

"Not  with  a  section  like  mine,"  said  he,  and 
he  straightened  up  and  looked  first  one  way 
of  the  road  and  then  the  other.  "I  have 
from  Grabow  Brook,  but  not  the  bridge,  to  the 
top  o'  Sullivan  Hill,  and  all  the  culverts  be- 
tween, though  two  of  'em  are  by  rights 
bridges.  And  I  claim  that's  a  job  for  any 
full-grown  man." 

He  began  shovelling  again  in  the  road  as  if 
to  prove  how  busy  he  was.  There  had  been 
a  small  landslide  from  an  open  cut  on  one  side 
and  a  mass  of  gravel  and  small  boulders  lay 
scattered  on  the  smooth  macadam.  I  watched 
him  for  a  moment.  I  love  to  watch  the  mo- 
tions of  vigorous  men  at  work,  the  easy  play 
of  the  muscles,  the  swing  of  the  shoulders, 
the  vigour  of  stoutly  planted  legs.  He  evi- 
dently considered  the  conversation  closed, 
and  I,  as  —  well,  as  a  dusty  man  of  the  road  — 
easily  dismissed.  (You  have  no  idea,  until 
you  try  it,  what  a  weight  of  prejudice  the 
man  of  the  road  has  to  surmount  before  he  is 
accepted  on  easy  terms  by  the  ordinary  mem- 
bers of  the  human  race.) 


126         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

A  few  other  well-intentioned  observations 
on  my  part  having  elicited  nothing  but 
monosyllabic  replies,  I  put  my  bag  down  by 
the  roadside  and,  going  up  to  the  wagon, 
got  out  a  shovel,  and  without  a  word 
took  my  place  at  the  other  end  of  the 
landslide  and  began  to  shovel  for  all  I  was 
worth. 

I  said  not  a  word  to  the  husky  road-worker 
and  pretended  not  to  look  at  him,  but  I  saw 
him  well  enough  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye. 
He  was  evidently  astonished  and  interested, 
as  I  knew  he  would  be:  it  was  something 
entirely  new  on  the  road.  He  didn't  quite 
know  whether  to  be  angry,  or  amused,  or 
sociable.  I  caught  him  looking  over  at  me 
several  times,  but  I  offered  no  response;  then 
he  cleared  his  throat  and  said: 

"Where  you  from?" 

I  answered  with  a  monosyllable  which  I 
knew  he  could  not  quite  catch.  Silence 
again  for  some  time,  during  which  I  shovelled 
valiantly  and  with  great  inward  amusement. 
Oh,  there  is  nothing  like  cracking  a  hard 
human  nut!  I  decided  at  that  moment  to 
have  him  invite  me  to  supper. 

Finally,  when  I  showed  no  signs  of  stopping 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          127 

my  work,  he  himself  paused  and  leaned  on  his 
shovel.  I  kept  right  on. 

"Say,  partner,"  said  he,  finally,  "did  you 
read  those  signs  as  you  come  up  the  road?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "but  they  weren't  for  me, 
either.  My  section's  a  long  one,  too." 

"Say,  you  ain't  a  road-worker,  are  you?" 
he  asked  eagerly. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  with  a  sudden  inspiration, 
"that's  exactly  what  I  am  —  a  road-worker." 

"Put  her  there,  then,  partner,"  he  said, 
with  a  broad  smile  on  his  bronzed  face. 

He  and  I  struck  hands,  rested  on  our 
shovels  (like  old  hands  at  it),  and  looked  with 
understanding  into  each  other's  eyes.  We 
both  knew  the  trade  and  the  tricks  of  the 
trade;  all  bars  were  down  between  us.  The 
fact  is,  we  had  both  seen  and  profited  by  the 
peculiar  signs  at  the  roadside. 

"Where's  your  section?"  he  asked  easily. 

"Well,"  I  responded  after  considering  the 
question,  "I  have  a  very  long  and  hard 
section.  It  begins  at  a  place  called  Prosy 
Common  —  do  you  know  it?  —  and  reaches 
to  the  top  of  Clear  Hill.  There  are  several 
bad  spots  on  the  way,  I  can  tell  you." 

"Don't   know  it,"   said   the   husky   road- 


128          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

worker;  "'tain't  round   here,   is   it?     In  the 
town  of  Sheldon,  maybe?" 

Just  at  this  moment,  perhaps  fortunately, 
for  there  is  nothing  so  difficult  to  satisfy  as 
the  appetite  of  people  for  specific  informa- 
tion, a  motor-car  whizzed  past,  the  driver 
holding  up  his  hand  in  greeting,  and  the 
road-worker  and  I  responding  in  accord  with 
the  etiquette  of  the  Great  Road. 

"There  he  goes  in  the  ruts  again,"  said 
the  husky  road-worker.  "Why  is  it,  I'd 
like  to  know,  that  every  one  wants  to  run  in 
the  same  z-dentical  track  when  they've  got 
the  whole  wide  road  before  'em?" 

"That's  what  has  long  puzzled  me,  too,"  I 
said.  "Why  will  people  continue  to  run  in 
ruts?" 

"It  don't  seem  to  do  no  good  to  put  up 
signs,"  said  the  road-worker. 

"Very  little  indeed,"  said  I.  "The  fact  is, 
people  have  got  to  be  bumped  out  of  most 
of  the  ruts  they  get  into." 

"You're  right,"  said  he  enthusiastically, 
and  his  voice  dropped  into  the  tone  of  one 
speaking  to  a  member  of  the  inner  guild. 
"I  know  how  to  get  'em." 


A  MOTOR-CAR  WHIZZED  PAST.      "  THERE  HE  GOES  IN  THE 
RUTS  AGAIN,"  SAID  THE  HUSKY  ROAD-WORKER 


130         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"How?"  I  asked  in  an  equally  mysterious 
voice. 

"  I  put  a  stone  or  two  in  the  ruts ! " 

"Do  you?"  I  exclaimed.  "I've  done  that 
very  thing  myself  —  many  a  time!  Just 
place  a  good  hard  tru  —  I  mean  stone,  with  a 
bit  of  common  dust  sprinkled  over  it,  in  the 
middle  of  the  rut,  and  they'll  look  out  for 
that  rut  for  some  time  to  come." 

"Ain't  it  gorgeous,"  said  the  husky  road- 
worker,  chuckling  joyfully,  "to  see  'em 
bump?" 

"It  is,"  said  I  — "gorgeous." 

After  that,  shovelling  part  of  the  time 
in  a  leisurely  way,  and  part  of  the  time 
responding  to  the  urgent  request  of  the 
signs  by  the  roadside  (it  pays  to  advertise!), 
the  husky  road-worker  and  I  discussed  many 
great  and  important  subjects,  all,  however, 
curiously  related  to  roads.  Working  all  day 
long  with  his  old  horse,  removing  obstructions, 
draining  out  the  culverts,  filling  ruts  and 
holes  with  new  stone,  and  repairing  the 
damage  of  rain  and  storm,  the  road-worker 
was  filled  with  a  world  of  practical  information 
covering  roads  and  road-making.  And  hav- 
ing learned  that  I  was  of  the  same  calling 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          131 

we  exchanged  views  with  the  greatest  enthu- 
siasm. It  was  astonishing  to  see  how  nearly 
in  agreement  we  were  as  to  what  constituted 
an  ideal  road. 

"Almost  everything,"  said  he,  "depends 
on  depth.  If  you  get  a  good  solid  foundation, 
the'  ain't  anything  that  can  break  up  your 
road." 

"Exactly  what  I  have  discovered,"  I  re- 
sponded. "Get  down  to  bedrock  and  do  an 
honest  job  of  building." 

"And  don't  have  too  many  sharp  turns." 

"No,"  said  I,  "long,  leisurely  curves  are 
best  —  all  through  life.  You  have  observed 
that  nearly  all  the  accidents  on  the  road  are 
due  to  sharp  turnings." 

"Right  you  are!"  he  exclaimed. 

"A  man  who  tries  to  turn  too  sharply  on 
his  way  nearly  always  skids." 

"Or  else  turns  turtle  in  the  ditch." 

But  it  was  not  until  we  reached  the  subject 
of  oiling  that  we  mounted  to  the  real  summit 
of  enthusiastic  agreement.  Of  all  things 
on  the  road,  or  above  the  road,  or  in  the 
waters  under  the  road,  there  is  nothing  that 
the  road-worker  dislikes  more  than  oil. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  he,  "to  use  oil  for 


132          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

surfacin'  and  to  keep  down  the  dust.  You 
don't  need  much  and  it  ain't  messy.  But 
sometimes  when  you  see  oil  pumped  on  a 
road,  you  know  that  either  the  contractor 
has  been  jobbin',  or  else  the  road's  worn 
out  and  ought  to  be  rebuilt." 

"That's  exactly  what  I've  found,"  said 
I.  "Let  a  road  become  almost  impassable 
with  ruts  and  rocks  and  dust,  and  immedi- 
ately some  man  says,  'Oh,  it's  all  right  — 
put  on  a  little  oil  — 

"That's  what  our  supervisor  is  always 
sayin', "  said  the  road-worker. 

"Yes,"  I  responded,  "it  usually  is  the 
supervisor.  He  lives  by  it.  He  wants  to 
smooth  over  the  defects,  he  wants  to  lay 
the  dust  that  every  passerby  kicks  up, 
he  tries  to  smear  over  the  truth  regarding 
conditions  with  messy  and  ill-smelling  oil. 
Above  everything,  he  doesn't  want  the 
road  dug  up  and  rebuilt  —  says  it  will 
interfere  with  traffic,  injure  business,  and 
even  set  people  to  talking  about  changing 
the  route  entirely!  Oh,  haven't  I  seen  it  in 
religion,  where  they  are  doing  their  best 
to  oil  up  roads  that  are  entirely  worn  out 
—  and  as  for  politics,  is  not  the  cry  of  the 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          133 

party-roadster  and  the  harmony-oilers  abroad 
in  the  land?" 

In  the  excited  interest  with  which  this 
idea  now  bore  me  along  I  had  entirely  for- 
gotten the  existence  of  my  companion,  and 
as  I  now  glanced  at  him  I  saw  him  standing 
with  a  curious  look  of  astonishment  and 
suspicion  on  his  face.  I  saw  that  I  had 
unintentionally  gone  a  little  too  far.  So  I 
said  abruptly: 

"Partner,  let's  get  a  drink.     I'm  thirsty." 

He  followed  me,  I  thought  a  bit  reluctantly, 
to  a  little  brook  not  far  up  the  road  where 
we  had  been  once  before.  As  we  were 
drinking,  silently,  I  looked  at  the  stout 
young  fellow  standing  there,  and  I  thought 
to  myself: 

What  a  good,  straightforward  young  fel- 
low he  is  anyway,  and  how  thoroughly 
he  knows  his  job.  I  thought  how  well 
he  was  equipped  with  unilluminated  knowl- 
edge, and  it  came  to  me  whimsically, 
that  here  was  a  fine  bit  of  road-mending 
for  me  to  do. 

Most  people  have  sight,  but  few  have 
insight;  and  as  I  looked  into  the  clear  blue 
eyes  of  my  friend  I  had  a  sudden  swift 


134         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

inspiration,  and  before  I  could  repent  of  it 
I  had  said  to  him  in  the  most  serious  voice 
that  I  could  command: 

"Friend,  I  am  in  reality  a  spectacle- 
peddler - 

His  glance  shifted  uncomfortably  to  my 
gray  bag. 

"And  I  want  to  sell  you  a  pair  of  spec- 
tacles," I  said.  "I  see  that  you  are  nearly 
blind." 

"Me  blind!" 

It  would  be  utterly  impossible  to  describe 
the  expression  on  his  face.  His  hand  went 
involuntarily  to  his  eyes,  and  he  glanced 
quickly,  somewhat  fearfully,  about. 

"Yes,  nearly  blind,"  said  I.  "I  saw  it 
when  I  first  met  you.  You  don't  know  it 
yourself  yet,  but  I  can  assure  you  it  is  a  bad 
case." 

I  paused,  and  shook  my  head  slowly. 
If  I  had  not  been  so  much  in  earnest,  I 
think  I  should  have  been  tempted  to  laugh 
outright.  I  had  begun  my  talk  with  him 
half  jestingly,  with  the  amusing  idea  of 
breaking  through  his  shell,  but  I  now  found 
myself  tremendously  engrossed,  and  desiring 
nothing  in  the  world  (at  that  moment) 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          135 

so  much  as  to  make  him  see  what  I  saw. 
I  felt  as  though  I  held  a  live  human  soul  in 
my  hand. 

"Say,  partner,"  said  the  road-worker,  "are 

you  sure  you  aren't "  He  tapped  his 

forehead  and  began  to  edge  away. 

I  did  not  answer  his  question  at  all,  but 
continued,  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  him: 

"It  is  a  peculiar  sort  of  blindness.  Ap- 
parently, as  you  look  about,  you  see  every- 
thing there  is  to  see,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact 
you  see  nothing  in  the  world  but  this  road " 

"It's  time  that  I  was  seein'  it  again  then," 
said  he,  making  as  if  to  turn  back  to  work, 
but  remaining  with  a  disturbed  expression 
on  his  countenance. 

"The  spectacles  I  have  to  sell,"  said  I? 
"are  powerful  magnifiers"  —  he  glanced  again 
at  the  gray  bag.  "When  you  put  them  on 
you  will  see  a  thousand  wonderful  things 
besides  the  road " 

"Then  you  ain't  a  road-worker  after  all!" 
he  said,  evidently  trying  to  be  bluff  and 
outright  with  me. 

Now  your  substantial,  sober,  practical 
American  will  stand  only  about  so  much 


136         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

verbal  foolery;  and  there  is  nothing  in  the 
world  that  makes  him  more  uncomfortable 
—  yes,  downright  mad!  —  than  to  feel  that 
he  is  being  played  with.  I  could  see  that 
I  had  nearly  reached  the  limit  with  him, 
and  that  if  I  held  him  now  it  must  be  by 
driving  the  truth  straight  home.  So  I  stepped 
over  toward  him  and  said  very  earnestly: 

"My  friend,  don't  think  I  am  merely 
joking  you.  I  was  never  more  in  earnest 
in  all  my  life.  When  I  told  you  I  was  a 
road-worker  I  meant  it,  but  I  had  in  mind 
the  mending  of  other  kinds  of  roads  than 
this." 

I  laid  my  hand  on  his  arm,  and  explained 
to  him  as  directly  and  simply  as  English 
words  could  do  it,  how,  when  he  had  spoken 
of  oil  for  his  roads,  I  thought  of  another 
sort  of  oil  for  another  sort  of  roads,  and  when 
he  spoke  of  curves  in  his  roads  I  was  thinking 
of  curves  in  the  roads  I  dealt  with,  and 
I  explained  to  him  what  my  roads  were. 
I  have  never  seen  a  man  more  intensely 
interested:  he  neither  moved  nor  took  his 
eyes  from  my  face. 

"And  when  I  spoke  of  selling  you  a  pair 
of  spectacles,"  said  I,  "it  was  only  a  way  of 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          137 

telling  you  how  much  I  wanted  to  make  you 
see  my  kinds  of  roads  as  well  as  your  own." 

I  paused,  wondering  if,  after  all,  he 
could  be  made  to  see.  I  know  now  how 
the  surgeon  must  feel  at  the  crucial  mo- 
ment of  his  accomplished  operation.  Will 
the  patient  live  or  die? 

The  road-worker  drew  a  long  breath  as 
he  came  out  from  under  the  anesthetic. 

"I  guess,  partner,"  said  he,  "y°u're  try- 
ing to  put  a  stone  or  two  in  my  ruts!" 

I  had  him! 

"Exactly,"  I  exclaimed  eagerly. 

We  both  paused.  He  was  the  first  to 
speak  —  with  some  embarrassment: 

"Say,  you're  just  like  a  preacher  I  used 
to  know  when  I  was  a  kid.  He  was  always 
sayin'  things  that  meant  something  else, 
and  when  you  found  out  what  he  was  drivin' 
at  you  always  felt  kind  of  queer  in  your 
insides." 

I  laughed. 

"It's  a  mighty  good  sign,"  I  said,  "when 
a  man  begins  to  feel  queer  in  the  insides. 
It  shows  that  something  is  happening  to 
him." 

With  that  we  walked  back  to  the  road, 


138          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

feeling  very  close  and  friendly  —  and  began 
shovelling  again,  not  saying  much.  After 
quite  a  time,  when  we  had  nearly  cleaned 
up  the  landslide,  I  heard  the  husky  road- 
worker  chuckling  to  himself;  finally,  straight- 
ening up,  he  said: 

"Say,  there's  more  things  in  a  road  than 
ever  I  dreamt  of." 

"I  see,"  said  I,  "that  the  new  spectacles 
are  a  good  fit." 

The  road-worker  laughed  long  and  loud. 

"You're  a  good  one,  all  right,"  he  said. 
"I  see  what  you  mean.  I  catch  your  point." 

"And  now  that  you've  got  them  on," 
said  I,  "and  they  are  serving  you  so  well, 
I'm  not  going  to  sell  them  to  you  at  all. 
I'm  going  to  present  them  to  you  —  for 
I  haven't  seen  anybody  in  a  long  time  that 
I've  enjoyed  meeting  more  than  I  have  you." 

We  nurse  a  fiction  that  people  love  to 
cover  up  their  feelings;  but  I  have  learned 
that  if  the  feeling  is  real  and  deep  they  love 
far  better  to  find  a  way  to  uncover  it. 

"Same  here,"  said  the  road-worker  simply, 
but  with  a  world  of  genuine  feeling  in  his 
voice. 

Well,   when   it   came   time   to   stop   work 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          139 

the  road-worker  insisted  that  I  get  in  and 
go  home  with  him. 

"I  want  you  to  see  my  wife  and  kids," 
said  he. 

The  upshot  of  it  was  that  I  not  only 
remained  for  supper  —  and  a  good  supper 
it  was  —  but  I  spent  the  night  in  his  little 
home,  close  at  the  side  of  the  road  near 
the  foot  of  a  fine  hill.  And  from  time  to 
time  all  night  long,  it  seemed  to  me,  I  could 
hear  the  rush  of  cars  going  by  in  the  smooth 
road  outside,  and  sometimes  their  lights 
flashed  in  at  my  window,  and  sometimes 
I  heard  them  sound  their  brassy  horns. 

I  wish  I  could  tell  more  of  what  I  saw 
there,  of  the  garden  back  of  the  house,  and 
of  all  the  road-worker  and  his  wife  told  me 
of  their  simple  history  —  but  the  road  calls ! 

When  I  set  forth  early  this  morning  the 
road-worker  followed  me  out  to  the  smooth 
macadam  (his  wife  standing  in  the  doorway 
with  her  hands  rolled  in  her  apron)  and  said 
to  me,  a  bit  shyly: 

"  I'll  be  more  sort  oj  —  sort  o'  interested 
in  roads  since  I've  seen  you." 

"I'll  be  along  again  some  of  these  days," 
said  I,  laughing,  "and  I'll  stop  in  and  show 


140         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

you  my  new  stock  of  spectacles.  Maybe  I 
can  sell  you  another  pair!" 

"Maybe  you  kin,"  and  he  smiled  a  broad, 
understanding  smile. 

Nothing  brings  men  together  like  having 
a  joke  in  common. 

So  I  walked  off  down  the  road  —  in  the 
best  of  spirits  —  ready  for  the  events  of  an- 
other day. 

It  will  surely  be  a  great  adventure,  one 
of  these  days,  to  come  this  way  again  — 
and  to  visit  the  Stanleys,  and  the  Vedders, 
and  the  Minister,  and  drop  in  and  sell  another 
pair  of  specs  to  the  Road-worker.  It  seems 
to  me  I  have  a  wonderfully  rosy  future 
ahead  of  me! 

P.  S. — I  have  not  yet  found  out  who  painted 
the  curious  signs;  but  I  am  not  as  uneasy 
about  it  as  I  was.  I  have  seen  two  more  of 
them  already  this  morning  —  and  find  they 
exert  quite  a  psychological  influence. 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  HUMAN 
NATURE 


CHAPTER  VI 
AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  HUMAN  NATURE 

TN  THE  early  morning  after  I  left  the  husky 
A  road-mender  (wearing  his  new  spectacles), 
I  remained  steadfastly  on  the  Great  Road  or 
near  it.  It  was  a  prime  spring  day,  just  a 
little  hazy,  as  though  promising  rain,  but  soft 
and  warm. 

"They  will  be  working  in  the  garden  at 
home,"  I  thought,  "and  there  will  be  worlds 
of  rhubarb  and  asparagus."  Then  I  remem- 
bered how  the  morning  sunshine  would  look 
on  the  little  vine-clad  back  porch  (reaching 

'43 


144          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

halfway  up  the  weathered  door)  of  my  own 
house  among  the  hills. 

It  was  the  first  time  since  my  pilgrimage 
began  that  I  had  thought  with  any  emotion 
of  my  farm  —  or  of  Harriet. 

And  then  the  road  claimed  me  again, 
and  I  began  to  look  out  for  some  further 
explanation  of  the  curious  sign,  the  single 
word  "Rest,"  which  had  interested  me  so 
keenly  on  the  preceding  day.  It  may  seem 
absurd  to  some  who  read  these  lines  — 
some  practical  people !  —  but  I  cannot  convey 
the  pleasure  I  had  in  the  very  elusiveness 
and  mystery  of  the  sign,  nor  how  I  wished 
I  might  at  the  next  turn  come  upon  .the  poet 
himself.  I  decided  that  no  one  but  a  poet 
could  have  contented  himself  with  a  lyric 
in  one  word,  unless  it  might  have  been  a 
humourist,  to  whom  sometimes  a  single 
small  word  is  more  blessed  than  all  the 
verbal  riches  of  Webster  himself.  For  it 
is  nothing  short  of  genius  that  uses  one 
word  when  twenty  will  say  the  same 
thing! 

Or,  would  he,  after  all,  turn  out  to  be 
only  a  more  than  ordinarily  alluring  ad- 
vertiser? I  confess  my  heart  went  into 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          145 

my  throat  that  morning,  when  I  first  saw 
the  sign,  lest  it  read : 


REST 

aurant  2  miles  east 

nor  should  I  have  been  surprised  if  it  had. 

I  caught  a  vicarious  glimpse  of  the  sign- 
man  to-day,  through  the  eyes  of  a  young 
farmer.  Yes,  he  s'posed  he'd  seen  him, 
he  said;  wore  a  slouch  hat,  couldn't  tell 
whether  he  was  young  or  old.  Drove  into 
the  bushes  (just  daown  there  beyond 
the  brook)  and,  standin'  on  the  seat  of 
his  buggy,  nailed  something  to  a  tree.  A 
day  or  two  later  —  the  dull  wonder  of  man- 
kind!—  the  young  farmer,  passing  that  way 
to  town,  had  seen  the  odd  sign  "Rest"  on  the 
tree :  he  s'posed  the  fellow  put  it  there. 

"What  does  it  mean?" 

"Well,  naow,  I  hadn't  thought,"  said  the 
young  farmer. 

"Did  the  fellow  by  any  chance  have  long 
hair?" 

"Well,  naow,  I  didn't  notice,"  said  he. 

"Are  you  sure  he  wore  a  slouch  hat?" 


146        THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"Ye-es  —  or  it  may  a-been  straw,"  re- 
plied the  observant  young  farmer. 

So  I  tramped  that  morning;  and  as  I 
tramped  I  let  my  mind  go  out  warmly 
to  the  people  living  all  about  on  the  farms 
or  in  the  hills.  It  is  pleasant  at  times  to 
feel  life,  as  it  were,  in  general  terms;  no 
specific  Mr.  Smith  or  concrete  Mr.  Jones, 
but  just  human  life.  I  love  to  think  of 
people  all  around  going  out  busily  in  the 
morning  to  their  work  and  returning  at 
night,  weary,  to  rest.  I  like  to  think  of 
them  growing  up,  growing  old,  loving,  achiev- 
ing, sinning,  failing  —  in  short,  living. 

In  such  a  live-minded  mood  as  this  it 
often  happens  that  the  most  ordinary  things 
appear  charged  with  new  significance.  I 
suppose  I  had  seen  a  thousand  rural-mail 
boxes  along  country  roads  before  that  day, 
but  I  had  seen  them  as  the  young  farmer  saw 
the  sign-man.  They  were  mere  inert  objects 
of  iron  and  wood. 

But  as  I  tramped,  thinking  of  the  people 
in  the  hills,  I  came  quite  unexpectedly 
upon  a  sandy  by-road  that  came  out  through 
a  thicket  of  scrub  oaks  and  hazel-brush, 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          147 

like  some  shy  countryman,  to  join  the  turn- 
pike. As  I  stood  looking  into  it  —  for 
it  seemed  peculiarly  inviting  —  I  saw  at 
the  entrance  a  familiar  group  of  rural-mail 
boxes.  And  I  saw  them  not  as  dead  things, 
but  for  the  moment  —  the  illusion  was  over- 
powering —  they  were  living,  eager  hands 
outstretched  to  the  passing  throng.  I  could 
feel,  hear,  see  the  farmers  up  there  in  the 
hills  reaching  out  to  me,  to  all  the  world, 
for  a  thousand  inexpressible  things,  for  more 
life,  more  companionship,  more  comforts, 
more  money. 

It  occurred  to  me  at  that  moment,  whim- 
sically and  yet  somehow  seriously,  that  I 
might  respond  to  the  appeal  of  the  shy  coun- 
try road  and  the  outstretched  hands.  At 
first  I  did  not  think  of  anything  I  could  do 
—  save  to  go  up  and  eat  dinner  with  one 
of  the  hill  farmers,  which  might  not  be  an 
unmixed  blessing!  —  and  then  it  came  to  me. 

"I  will  write  a  letter!" 

Straightway  and  with  the  liveliest  amuse- 
ment I  began  to  formulate  in  my  mind  what 
I  should  say: 

DEAR  FRIEND  :  You  do  not  know  me.      I  am  a  passerby  in 
the  road.     My  name  is  David  Grayson.     You  do  not  know 


148         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

me,  and  it  may  seem  odd  to  you  to  receive  a  letter  from  an 
entire  stranger.  But  I  am  something  of  a  farmer  myself,  and 
as  I  went  by  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  you  and  of  your 
family  and  your  farm.  The  fact  is,  I  should  like  to  look 
you  up,  and  talk  with  you  about  many  things.  I  myself 
cultivate  a  number  of  curious  fields,  and  raise  many  kinds  of 
crops 

At  this  interesting  point  my  inspiration 
suddenly  collapsed,  for  I  had  a  vision,  at 
once  amusing  and  disconcerting,  of  my  hill 
farmer  (and  his  practical  wife!)  receiving 
such  a  letter  (along  with  the  country  paper, 
a  circular  advertising  a  cure  for  catarrh, 
and  the  most  recent  catalogue  of  the  largest 
mail-order  house  in  creation).  I  could  see 
them  standing  there  in  their  doorway,  the 
man  with  his  coat  off,  doubtfully  scratching 
his  head  as  he  read  my  letter,  the  woman 
wiping  her  hands  on  her  apron  and  looking 
over  his  shoulder,  and  a  youngster  squeezing 
between  the  two  and  demanding,  "What 
is  it,  Paw?" 

I  found  myself  wondering  how  they  would 
receive  such  an  unusual  letter,  what  they 
would  take  it  to  mean.  And  in  spite  of 
all  I  could  do,  I  could  imagine  no  expression 
on  their  faces  save  one  of  incredulity  and 
suspicion.  I  could  fairly  see  the  shrewd, 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          149 

worldly  wise  look  come  into  the  farmer's  face; 
I  could  hear  him  say: 

"Ha,  guess  he  thinks  we  ain't  cut  our 
eye-teeth!"  And  he  would  instantly  begin 
speculating  as  to  whether  this  was  a  new 
scheme  for  selling  him  second-rate  nursery 
stock,  or  the  smooth  introduction  of  another 
sewing-machine  agent. 

Strange  world,  strange  world!  Sometimes 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  hardest  thing  of  all 
to  believe  in  is  simple  friendship.  Is  it  not 
a  comment  upon  our  civilization  that  it 
is  so  often  easier  to  believe  that  a  man  is  a 
friend-for-profit,  or  even  a  cheat,  than  that 
he  is  frankly  a  well-wisher  of  his  neighbours  ? 

These  reflections  put  such  a  damper  upon 
my  enthusiasm  that  I  was  on  the  point  of 
taking  again  to  the  road,  when  it  came  to  me 
powerfully:  Why  not  try  the  experiment? 
Why  not? 

"Friendship,"  I  said  aloud,  "is  the  greatest 
thing  in  the  world.  There  is  no  door  it  will 
not  unlock,  no  problem  it  will  not  solve.  It 
is,  after  all,  the  only  real  thing  in  this  world." 

The  sound  of  my  own  voice  brought  me 
suddenly  to  myself,  and  I  found  that  I 


150         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

was  standing  there  in  the  middle  of  the 
public  road,  one  clenched  fist  absurdly  raised 
in  air,  delivering  an  oration  to  a  congregation 
of  rural-mail  boxes! 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  humorous  aspects 
of  the  idea,  it  still  appeared  to  me  that  such 
an  experiment  would  not  only  fit  in  with  the 
true  object  of  my  journeying,  but  that  it 
might  be  full  of  amusing  and  interesting 
adventures.  Straightway  I  got  my  note- 
book out  of  my  bag  and,  sitting  down  near 
the  roadside,  wrote  my  letter.  I  wrote  it  as 
though  my  life  depended  upon  it,  with  the 
intent  of  making  some  one  household  there 
in  the  hills  feel  at  least  a  little  wave  of  warmth 
and  sympathy  from  the  great  world  that 
was  passing  in  the  road  below.  I  tried  to 
prove  the  validity  of  a  kindly  thought  with 
no  selling  device  attached  to  it;  I  tried  to 
make  it  such  a  word  of  frank  companionship 
as  I  myself,  working  in  my  own  fields,  would 
like  to  receive. 

Among  the  letter-boxes  in  the  group  was 
one  that  stood  a  little  detached  and  behind 
the  others,  as  though  shrinking  from  such 
prosperous  company.  It  was  made  of  un- 
painted  wood,  with  leather  hinges,  and  looked 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          151 

shabby  in  comparison  with  the  jaunty  red, 
green,  and  gray  paint  of  some  of  the  other 
boxes  (with  their  cocky  little  metallic  flags 
upraised).  It  bore  the  good  American  name 
of  Clark  —  T.  N.  Clark  —  and  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  could  tell  something  of  the  Clarks 
by  the  box  at  the  crossing. 

"I  think  they  need  a  friendly  word,"  I  said 
to  myself. 

So  I  wrote  the  name  T.  N.  Clark  on  my 
envelope  and  put  the  letter  in  his  box. 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  joyous  adventure 
that  I  now  turned  aside  into  the  sandy  road 
and  climbed  the  hill.  My  mind  busied 
itself  with  thinking  how  I  should  carry  out 
my  experiment,  how  I  should  approach  these 
Clarks,  and  how  and  what  they  were.  A 
thousand  ways  I  pictured  to  myself  the 
receipt  of  the  letter:  it  would  at  least  be 
something  new  for  them,  something  just  a 
little  disturbing,  and  I  was  curious  to  see 
whether  it  might  open  the  rift  of  wonder  wide 
enough  to  let  me  slip  into  their  lives. 

I  have  often  wondered  why  it  is  that 
men  should  be  so  fearful  of  new  ventures 
in  social  relationships,  when  I  have  found 
them  so  fertile,  so  enjoyable.  Most  of  us 


152         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

fear  (actually  fear)  people  who  diifer  from 
ourselves,  either  up  or  down  the  scale. 
Your  Edison  pries  fearlessly  into  the  most 
intimate  secrets  of  matter;  your  Marconi 
employs  the  mysterious  properties  of  the 
"jellied  ether,"  but  let  a  man  seek  to  experi- 
ment with  the  laws  of  that  singular  electricity 
which  connects  you  and  me  (though  you  be 
a  millionaire  and  I  a  ditch-digger),  and  we 
think  him  a  wild  visionary,  an  academic 
person.  I  think  sometimes  that  the  science 
of  humanity  to-day  is  in  about  the  state  of 
darkness  that  the  natural  sciences  were 
when  Linnaeus  and  Cuvier  and  Lamarck 
began  groping  for  the  great  laws  of  natural 
unity.  Most  of  the  human  race  is  still 
groaning  under  the  belief  that  each  of  us  is 
a  special  and  unrelated  creation,  just  as 
men  for  ages  saw  no  relationships  between 
the  fowls  of  the  air,  the  beasts  of  the  field, 
and  the  fish  of  the  sea.  But,  thank  God, 
we  are  beginning  to  learn  that  unity  is  as 
much  a  law  of  life  as  selfish  struggle,  and  love 
a  more  vital  force  than  avarice  or  lust  of 
power  or  place.  A  Wandering  Carpenter 
knew  it,  and  taught  it,  twenty  centuries 
ago. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD         153 

"The  next  house  beyond  the  ridge,"  said 
the  toothless  old  woman,  pointing  with 
a  long  finger,  "is  the  darks'.  You  can't 
miss  it,"  and  I  thought  she  looked  at  me 
oddly. 

I  had  been  walking  briskly  for  some 
three  miles,  and  it  was  with  keen  expecta- 
tion that  I  now  mounted  the  ridge  and 
saw  the  farm  for  which  I  was  looking,  lying 
there  in  the  valley  before  me.  It  was  al- 
together a  wild  and  beautiful  bit  of  country  — 
stunted  cedars  on  the  knolls  of  the  rolling 
hills,  a  brook  trailing  its  way  among  alders 
and  willows  down  a  long  valley,  and  shaggy 
old  fields  smiling  in  the  sun.  As  I  came  nearer 
I  could  see  that  the  only  disharmony  in  the 
valley  was  the  work  (or  idleness)  of  men.  A 
broken  mowing-machine  stood  in  the  field 
where  it  had  been  left  the  summer  before,  rusty 
and  forlorn,  and  dead  weeds  marked  the 
edges  of  a  field  wherein  the  spring  plough- 
ing was  now  only  half  done.  The  whole 
farmstead,  indeed,  looked  tired.  As  for  the 
house  and  barn,  they  had  reached  that  final 
stage  of  decay  in  which  the  best  thing  that 
could  be  said  of  them  was  that  they  were 
picturesque.  Everything  was  as  different 


154         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

from  the  farm  of  the  energetic  and  joyous 
Stanleys,  whose  work  I  had  shared  only  a 
few  days  before,  as  anything  that  could  be 
imagined. 

Now,  my  usual  way  of  getting  into  step 
with  people  is  simplicity  itself.  I  take  off 
my  coat  and  go  to  work  with  them  and  the 
first  thing  I  know  we  have  become  first-rate 
friends.  One  doesn't  dream  of  the  possi- 
bilities of  companionship  in  labour  until  he 
has  tried  it. 

But  how  shall  one  get  into  step  with  a  man 
who  is  not  stepping? 

On  the  porch  of  the  farmhouse,  there 
in  the  mid-afternoon,  a  man  sat  idly;  and 
children  were  at  play  in  the  yard.  I  went 
in  at  the  gate,  not  knowing  in  the  least 
what  I  should  say  or  do,  but  determined  to 
get  hold  of  the  problem  somewhere.  As  I 
approached  the  step,  I  swung  my  bag  from 
my  shoulder. 

"Don't  want  to  buy  nothin', "  said  the  man. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "that  is  fortunate,  for  I 
have  nothing  to  sell.  But  you've  got  some- 
thing I  want." 

He  looked  at  me  dully. 

"What's  that?" 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          155 

"A  drink  of  water." 

Scarcely    moving    his    head,   he   called   to 


AS  I  STOOD  THERE  THE  CHILDREN  GATHERED  CURIOUSLY 
AROUND  ME " 

a  shy  older  girl  who  had  just  appeared  in 

the  doorway. 

"Mandy,  bring  a  dipper  of  water." 

As   I    stood   there   the   children    gathered 


156         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

curiously  around  me,  and  the  man  con- 
tinued to  sit  in  his  chair,  saying  absolutely 
nothing,  a  picture  of  dull  discouragement. 

"How  they  need  something  to  stir  them 
up,"  I  thought. 

When  I  had  emptied  the  dipper,  I  sat 
down  on  the  top  step  of  the  porch,  and, 
without  saying  a  word  to  the  man,  placed 
my  bag  beside  me  and  began  to  open  it. 
The  shy  girl  paused,  dipper  in  hand,  the 
children  stood  on  tiptoe,  and  even  the  man 
showed  signs  of  curiosity.  With  studied 
deliberation  I  took  out  two  books  I  had 
with  me  and  put  them  on  the  porch;  then  I 
proceeded  to  rummage  for  a  long  time  in 
the  bottom  of  the  bag  as  though  I  could 
not  find  what  I  wanted.  Every  eye  was 
glued  upon  me,  and  I  even  heard  the  step 
of  Mrs.  Clark  as  she  came  to  the  doorway, 
but  I  did  not  look  up  or  speak.  Finally 
I  pulled  out  my  tin  whistle  and,  leaning 
back  against  the  porch  column,  placed  it  to 
my  lips,  and  began  playing  in  Tom  Madison's 
best  style  (eyes  half  closed,  one  toe  tapping 
to  the  music,  head  nodding,  fingers  lifted 
high  from  the  stops),  I  began  playing 
"Money  Musk,"  and  "Old  Dan  Tucker." 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD         157 

Oh,  I  put  vim  into  it,  I  can  tell  you !  And  bad 
as  my  playing  was,  I  had  from  the  start 
an  absorption  of  attention  from  my  audi- 
ence that  Paderewski  himself  might  have 
envied.  I  wound  up  with  a  lively  trill  in 
the  high  notes  and  took  my  whistle  from 
my  lips  with  a  hearty  laugh,  for  the  whole 
thing  had  been  downright  good  fun,  the 
playing  itself,  the  make-believe  which  went 
with  it,  the  surprise  and  interest  in  the 
children's  faces,  the  slow-breaking  smile  of 
the  little  girl  with  the  dipper. 

"I'll  warrant  you,  madam,"  I  said  to  the 
woman  who  now  stood  frankly  in  the  door- 
way with  her  hands  wrapped  in  her  apron, 
"y°u  haven't  heard  those  tunes  since  you 
were  a  girl  and  danced  to  'em." 

"You're  right,"  she  responded  heartily. 

"I'll  give  you  another  jolly  one,"  I  said, 
and,  replacing  my  whistle,  I  began  with 
even  greater  zest  to  play  "Yankee  Doodle." 

When  I  had  gone  through  it  half  a  dozen 
times  with  such  added  variations  and  trills 
as  I  could  command,  and  had  two  of  the 
children  hopping  about  in  the  yard,  and  the 
forlorn  man  tapping  his  toe  to  the  tune,  and 
a  smile  on  the  face  of  the  forlorn  woman,  I 


158         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

wound  up  with  a  rush,  and  then,  as  if  I  could 
hold  myself  in  no  longer  (and  I  couldn't 
either!),  I  suddenly  burst  out: 

Yankee  doodle  dandy! 
Yankee  doodle  dandy! 
Mind  the  music  and  the  step, 
And  with  the  girls  be  handy. 

It  may  seem  surprising,  but  I  think  I 
can  understand  why  it  was  —  when  I  looked 
up  at  the  woman  in  the  doorway  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes! 

"Do  you  know  'John  Brown's  Body'?" 
eagerly  inquired  the  little  girl  with  the 
dipper,  and  then,  as  if  she  had  done  some- 
thing quite  bold  and  improper,  she  blushed 
and  edged  toward  the  doorway. 

"How  does  it  go?"  I  asked,  and  one  of 
the  bold  lads  in  the  yard  instantly  puck- 
ered his  lips  to  show  me,  and  immediately 
they  were  all  trying  it. 

"Here  goes,"  said  I,  and  for  the  next  few 
minutes,  and  in  my  very  best  style,  I  hung 
Jeff  Davis  on  the  sour  apple-tree,  and  I  sent 
the  soul  of  John  Brown  marching  onward 
with  an  altogether  unnecessary  number  of 
hallelujahs. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          159 

I  think  sometimes  that  people  —  whole 
families  of  'em  —  literally  perish  for  want 
of  a  good,  hearty,  whole-souled,  mouth- 
opening,  throat-stretching,  side-aching  laugh. 
They  begin  to  think  themselves  the  abused 
of  creation,  they  begin  to  advise  with  their 
livers  and  to  hate  their  neighbours,  and  the 
whole  world  becomes  a  miserable  dark  blue 
place  quite  unfit  for  human  habitation.  Well, 
all  this  is  often  only  the  result  of  a  neglect 
to  exercise  properly  those  muscles  of  the 
body  (and  of  the  soul)  which  have  to  do  with 
honest  laughter. 

I've  never  supposed  I  was  an  especially 
amusing  person,  but  before  I  got  through 
with  it  I  had  the  Clark  family  well  loosened 
up  with  laughter,  although  I  wasn't  quite 
sure  some  of  the  time  whether  Mrs.  Clark 
was  laughing  or  crying.  I  had  them  all 
laughing  and  talking,  asking  questions  and 
answering  them  as  though  I  were  an  old  and 
valued  neighbour. 

Isn't  it  odd  how  unconvinced  we  often 
are  by  the  crises  in  the  lives  of  other  people? 
They  seem  to  us  trivial  or  unimportant; 
but  the  fact  is,  the  crises  in  the  life  of  a  boy, 
for  example,  or  of  a  poor  man,  are  as  com- 


160         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

manding  as  the  crises  in  the  life  of  the  greatest 
statesman  or  millionaire,  for  they  involve 
equally  the  whole  personality,  the  entire 
prospects. 

The  Clark  family,  I  soon  learned,  had 
lost  its  pig.  A  trivial  matter,  you  say?  I 
wonder  if  anything  is  ever  trivial.  A  year 
of  poor  crops,  sickness,  low  prices,  discour- 
agement —  and,  at  the  end  of  it,  on  top  of  it 
all,  the  cherished  pig  had  died! 

From  all  accounts  (and  the  man  on  the 
porch  quite  lost  his  apathy  in  telling  me 
about  it)  it  must  have  been  a  pig  of  remarkable 
virtues  and  attainments,  a  paragon  of  pigs  — 
in  whom  had  been  bound  up  the  many  pos- 
sibilities of  new  shoes  for  the  children,  a 
hat  for  the  lady,  a  new  pair  of  overalls  for 
the  gentleman,  and  I  know  not  what  other 
kindred  luxuries.  I  do  not  think,  indeed, 
I  ever  had  the  portrait  of  a  pig  drawn  for 
me  with  quite  such  ardent  enthusiasm  of 
detail,  and  the  more  questions  I  asked 
the  more  eager  the  story,  until  finally  it 
became  necessary  for  me  to  go  to  the  barn, 
the  cattle-pen,  the  pig-pen  and  the  chicken- 
house,  that  I  might  visualize  more  clearly 
the  scene  of  the  tragedy.  The  whole  family 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          161 

trooped  after  us  like  a  classic  chorus,  but  Mr. 
Clark  himself  kept  the  centre  of  the  stage. 

How  plainly  I  could  read  upon  the  face 
of  the  land  the  story  of  this  hill  farmer 
and  his  meagre  existence  —  his  ill-directed 
effort  to  wring  a  poor  living  for  his  family 
from  these  upland  fields,  his  poverty,  and, 
above  all,  his  evident  lack  of  knowledge  of 
his  own  calling.  Added  to  these  things, 
and  perhaps  the  most  depressing  of  all 
his  difficulties,  was  the  utter  loneliness  of 
the  task,  the  feeling  that  it  mattered  little 
to  any  one  whether  the  Clark  family  worked 
or  not,  or  indeed  whether  they  lived  or  died. 
A  perfectly  good  American  family  was  here 
being  wasted,  with  the  precious  land  they 
lived  on,  because  no  one  had  taken  the  trouble 
to  make  them  feel  that  they  were  a  part 
of  this  Great  American  Job. 

As  we  went  back  to  the  house,  a  freckled- 
nosed  neighbour's  boy  came  in  at  the  gate. 

"A  letter  for  you,  Mr.  Clark,"  said  he. 
"I  brought  it  up  with  our  mail." 

"A  letter!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Clark. 

"A  letter!"  echoed  at  least  three  of  the 
children  in  unison. 


1 62         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"Probably  a  dun  from  Brewster,"  said 
Mr.  Clark  discouragingly. 

I  felt  a  curious  sensation  about  the  heart, 
and  an  eagerness  of  interest  I  have  rarely 
experienced.  I  had  no  idea  what  a  mere 
letter  —  a  mere  unopened  unread  letter  — 
would  mean  to  a  family  like  this. 

"It  has  no  stamp  on  it!"  exclaimed  the 
older  girl. 

Mrs.  Clark  turned  it  over  wonderingly 
in  her  hands.  Mr.  Clark  hastily  put  on  a 
pair  of  steel-bowed  spectacles. 

"Let  me  see  it,"  he  said,  and  when  he 
also  had  inspected  it  minutely  he  solemnly 
tore  open  the  envelope  and  drew  forth  my 
letter. 

I  assure  you  I  never  awaited  the  reading 
of  any  writing  of  mine  with  such  breathless 
interest.  How  would  they  take  it?  Would 
they  catch  the  meaning  that  I  meant  to  con- 
vey? And  would  they  suspect  me  of  having 
written  it? 

Mr.  Clark  sat  on  the  porch  and  read  the 
letter  slowly  through  to  the  end,  turned 
the  sheet  over  and  examined  it  carefully, 
and  then  began  reading  it  again  to  himself, 
Mrs.  Clark  leaning  over  his  shoulder. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          163 

"What  does  it  mean?"  asked  Mr.  Clark. 

"It's  too  good  to  be  true,"  said  Mrs. 
Clark  with  a  sigh. 

I  don't  know  how  long  the  discussion 
might  have  continued  —  probably  for  days 
or  weeks  —  had  not  the  older  girl,  now 
flushed  of  face  and  rather  pretty,  looked 
at  me  and  said  breathlessly  (she  was  as 
sharp  as  a  briar): 

"You  wrote  it." 

I  stood  the  battery  of  all  their  eyes  for 
a  moment,  smiling  and  rather  excited. 

"Yes,"  I  said  earnestly,  "I  wrote  it,  and 
I  mean  every  word  of  it." 

I  had  anticipated  some  shock  of  sus- 
picion and  inquiry,  but  to  my  surprise  it 
was  accepted  as  simply  as  a  neighbourly 
good  morning.  I  suppose  the  mystery  of 
it  was  eclipsed  by  my  astonishing  pres- 
ence there  upon  the  scene  with  my  tin 
whistle. 

At  any  rate,  it  was  a  changed,  eager, 
interested  family  which  now  occupied  the 
porch  of  that  dilapidated  farmhouse.  And 
immediately  we  fell  into  a  lively  discussion 
of  crops  and  farming,  and  indeed  the  whole 
farm  question,  in  which  I  found  both  the 


164         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

man  and  his  wife  singularly  acute  —  sharp- 
ened upon  the  stone  of  hard  experience. 

Indeed,  I  found  right  here,  as  I  have 
many  times  found  among  our  American 
farmers,  an  intelligence  (a  literacy  grow- 
ing out  of  what  I  believe  to  be  improper 
education)  which  was  better  able  to  dis- 
cuss the  problems  of  rural  life  than  to  grapple 
with  and  solve  them.  A  dull,  illiterate 
Polish  farmer,  I  have  found,  will  sometimes 
succeed  much  better  at  the  job  of  life  than 
his  American  neighbour. 

Talk  with  almost  any  man  for  half  an 
hour,  and  you  will  find  that  his  conversa- 
tion, like  an  old-fashioned  song,  has  a  reg- 
ularly recurrent  chorus.  I  soon  discovered 
Mr.  Clark's  chorus. 

"Now,  if  only  I  had  a  little  cash,"  he 
sang,  or,  "If  I  had  a  few  dollars,  I  could 
do  so  and  so." 

Why,  he  was  as  helplessly  dependent 
upon  money  as  any  soft-handed  millionairess. 
He  considered  himself  poor  and  helpless 
because  he  lacked  dollars,  whereas  people 
are  really  poor  and  helpless  only  when  they 
lack  courage  and  faith. 

We  were  so  much   absorbed   in  our  talk 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          165 

that  I  was  greatly  surprised  to  hear  Mrs. 
Clark's  voice  at  the  doorway. 

"Won't  you  come  in  to  supper?" 

After  we  had  eaten,  there  was  a  great 
demand  for  more  of  my  tin  whistle  (oh, 
I  know  how  Caruso  must  feel!),  and  I  played 
over  every  blessed  tune  I  knew,  and  some 
I  didn't,  four  or  five  times,  and  after  that 
we  told  stories  and  cracked  jokes  in  a  way 
that  must  have  been  utterly  astonishing  in 
that  household.  After  the  children  had  been, 
yes,  driven  to  bed,  Mr.  Clark  seemed  about 
to  drop  back  into  his  lamentations  over  his 
condition  (which  I  have  no  doubt  had  come 
to  give  him  a  sort  of  pleasure),  but  I  turned 
to  Mrs.  Clark,  whom  I  had  come  to  respect 
very  highly,  and  began  to  talk  about  the 
little  garden  she  had  started,  which  was 
about  the  most  enterprising  thing  about  the 
place. 

"Isn't  it  one  of  the  finest  things  in  this 
world,"  said  I,  "to  go  out  into  a  good  garden 
in  the  summer  days  and  bring  in  loaded 
baskets  filled  with  beets  and  cabbages  and 
potatoes,  just  for  the  gathering?" 

I  knew  from  the  expression  on  Mrs.  Clark's 
face  that  I  had  touched  a  sounding  note. 


166         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"Opening  the  green  corn  a  little  at  the 
top  to  see  if  it  is  ready  and  then  stripping 
it  off  and  tearing  away  the  moist  white 
husks " 

"And  picking  tomatoes?"  said  Mrs.  Clark. 

"And  knuckling  the  watermelons  to  see 
if  they  are  ripe?  Oh,  I  tell  you  there  are 
thousands  of  people  in  this  country  who'd 
like  to  be  able  to  pick  their  dinner  in  the 
garden!" 

"It's  fine!"  said  Mrs.  Clark  with  amused 
enthusiasm,  "but  I  like  best  to  hear  the 
hens  cackling  in  the  barnyard  in  the  morning 
after  they've  laid,  and  to  go  and  bring  in 
the  eggs." 

"Just  like  a  daily  present!"  I  said. 

"Ye-es,"  responded  the  soundly  practi- 
cal Mrs.  Clark,  thinking,  no  doubt,  that  there 
were  other  aspects  of  the  garden  and  chicken 
problem. 

"I'll  tell  you  another  thing  I  like  about 
a  farmer's  life,"  said  I,  "that's  the  smell  in 
the  house  in  the  summer  when  there  are  pre- 
serves, or  sweet  pickles,  or  jam,  or  whatever  it 
is,  simmering  on  the  stove.  No  matter  where 
you  are,  up  in  the  garret  or  down  cellar,  it's 
cinnamon,  and  allspice,  and  cloves,  and  every 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          167 

sort  of  sugary  odour.     Now,  that  gets  me 
where  I  live!" 

"It  is  good!"  said  Mrs.  Clark  with  a 
laugh  that  could  certainly  be  called  nothing 
if  not  girlish. 

All  this  time  I  had  been  keeping  one  eye  on 
Mr.  Clark.  It  was  amusing  to  see  him  strug- 
gling against  a  cheerful  view  of  life.  He  now 
broke  into  the  conversation. 

"Well,  but "he  began. 

Instantly  I  headed  him  off. 

"And  think,"  said  I,  "of  living  a  life  in 
which  you  are  beholden  to  no  man.  It's 
a  free  life,  the  farmer's  life.  No  one  can 
discharge  you  because  you  are  sick,  or  tired, 
or  old,  or  because  you  are  a  Democrat  or 
a  Baptist!" 

"Well,  but " 

"And  think  of  having  to  pay  no  rent, 
nor  of  having  to  live  upstairs  in  a  tene- 
ment!" 

"WehYbut " 

"Or  getting  run  over  by  a  street-car, 
or  having  the  children  play  in  the  gut- 
ters." 

"I   never  did  like  to  think  of  what  my 


1 68         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

children  would  do  if  we  went  to  town,"  said 
Mrs.  Clark. 

"I  guess  not!"  I  exclaimed. 

The  fact  is,  most  people  don't  think  half 
enough  of  themselves  and  of  their  jobs; 
but  before  we  went  to  bed  that  night  I 
had  the  forlorn  T.  N.  Clark  talking  about 
the  virtues  of  his  farm  in  quite  a  surprising 
way. 

I  even  saw  him  eying  me  two  or  three 
times  with  a  shrewd  look  in  his  eyes  (your 
American  is  an  irrepressible  trader)  as  though 
I  might  possibly  be  some  would-be  pur- 
chaser in  disguise. 

(I  shall  write  'some  time  a  dissertation  on 
the  advantages  of  wearing  shabby  clothing.) 

The  farm  really  had  many  good  points. 
One  of  them  was  a  shaggy  old  orchard 
of  good  and  thriving  but  utterly  neglected 
apple-trees. 

"Man  alive,"  I  said,  when  we  went  out 
to  see  it  in  the  morning,  "you've  got  a  gold 
mine  here!"  And  I  told  him  how  in  our 
neighbourhood  we  were  renovating  the  old 
orchards,  pruning  them  back,  spraying,  and 
bringing  them  into  bearing  again. 

He  had  never,  since  he  owned  the  place, 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          169 

had  a  salable  crop  of  fruit.  When  we  came 
in  to  breakfast  I  quite  stirred  the  practical 
Mrs.  Clark  with  my  enthusiasm,  and  she 
promised  at  once  to  send  for  a  bulletin  on 
apple-tree  renovation,  published  by  the  state 
experiment  station.  I  am  sure  I  was  no 
more  earnest  in  my  advice  than  the  conditions 
warranted. 

After  breakfast  we  went  into  the  field, 
and  I  suggested  that  instead  of  ploughing 
any  more  land  —  for  the  season  was  al- 
ready late  —  we  get  out  all  the  accumula- 
tions of  rotted  manure  from  around  the  barn 
and  strew  it  on  the  land  already  ploughed 
and  harrow  it  in. 

"A  good  job  on  a  little  piece  of  land," 
I  said,  "is  far  more  profitable  than  a  poor 
job  on  a  big  piece  of  land." 

Without  more  ado  we  got  his  old  team 
hitched  up  and  began  loading  and  haul- 
ing out  the  manure,  and  spent  all  day  long 
at  it.  Indeed,  such  was  the  height  of  en- 
thusiasm which  T.  N.  Clark  now  reached 
(for  his  was  a  temperament  that  must  either 
soar  in  the  clouds  or  grovel  in  the  mire), 
that  he  did  not  wish  to  stop  when  Mrs. 
Clark  called  us  in  to  supper.  In  that  one 


i yo         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

day  his  crop  of  corn,  in  perspective,  over- 
flowed his  crib,  he  could  not  find  boxes  and 
barrels  for  his  apples,  his  shed  would  not 
hold  all  his  tobacco,  and  his  barn  was  already 
being  enlarged  to  accommodate  a  couple  more 
cows !  He  was  also  keeping  bees  and  growing 
ginseng. 

But  it  was  fine,  that  evening,  to  see  Mrs. 
Clark's  face,  the  renewed  hope  and  courage 
in  it.  I  thought  as  I  looked  at  her  (for  she 
was  the  strong  and  steady  one  in  that 
house) : 

"If  you  can  keep  the  enthusiasm  up, 
if  you  can  make  that  husband  of  yours 
grow  corn,  and  cows,  and  apples  as  you 
raise  chickens  and  make  garden,  there  is 
victory  yet  in  this  valley." 

That  night  it  rained,  but  in  spite  of  the 
moist  earth  we  spent  almost  all  of  the  fol- 
lowing day  hard  at  work  in  the  field,  and 
all  the  time  talking  over  ways  and  means 
for  the  future,  but  the  next  morning,  early, 
I  swung  my  bag  on  my  back  and  left 
them. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  friend- 
liness of  our  parting.  Mrs.  Clark  followed 
me  wistfully  to  the  gate. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 


171 


I    can't  tell  you 


she  began,  with 


the  tears  starting  in  her  eyes. 

"Then  don't  try "  said  I,  smiling. 

And    so   I    swung   off   down   the   country 
road,  without  looking  back. 


THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY 

IN  SOME  strange  deep  way  there  is  no 
experience  of  my  whole  pilgrimage  that 
I  look  back  upon  with  so  much  wistful 
affection  as  I  do  upon  the  events  of  the 
day  —  the  day  and  the  wonderful  night  — 
which  followed  my  long  visit  with  the  for- 
lorn Clark  family  upon  their  hill  farm.  At 
first  I  hesitated  about  including  an  account 
of  it  here  because  it  contains  so  little  of 
what  may  be  called  thrilling  or  amusing  in- 
cident. 

"They  want  only  the  lively  stories  of 
my  adventures,"  I  said  to  myself,  and 
I  was  at  the  point  of  pushing  my  notes 
to  the  edge  of  the  table  where  (had  I  let 
go)  they  would  have  fallen  into  the  con- 
175 


176         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

venient  oblivion  of  the  waste-basket.  But 
something  held  me  back. 

"No,"  said  I,  "I'll  tell  it;  if  it  meant  so 
much  to  me,  it  may  mean  something  to 
the  friends  who  are  following  these  lines." 

For,  after  all,  it  is  not  what  goes  on  outside 
of  a  man,  the  clash  and  clatter  of  super- 
ficial events,  that  arouses  our  deepest  interest, 
but  what  goes  on  inside.  Consider  then 
that  in  this  narrative  I  shall  open  a  little 
door  in  my  heart  and  let  you  look  in,  if 
you  care  to,  upon  the  experiences  of  a  day 
and  a  night  in  which  I  was  supremely  happy. 

If  you  had  chanced  to  be  passing,  that 
crisp  spring  morning,  you  would  have  seen 
a  traveller  on  foot  with  a  gray  bag  on  his 
shoulder,  swinging  along  the  country  road; 
and  you  might  have  been  astonished  to  see 
him  lift  his  hat  at  you  and  wish  you  a  good 
morning.  You  might  have  turned  to  look 
back  at  him,  as  you  passed,  and  found  him 
turning  also  to  look  back  at  you  —  and  wish- 
ing he  might  know  you.  But  you  would  not 
have  known  what  he  was  chanting  under 
his  breath  as  he  tramped  (how  little  we 
know  of  a  man  by  the  shabby  coat  he  wears), 
nor  how  keenly  he  was  enjoying  the  light 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          177 

airs    and    the   warm    sunshine   of   that   fine 
spring  morning. 

After  leaving  the  hill  farm  he  had  walked 
five  miles  up  the  valley,  had  crossed  the 
ridge  at  a  place  called  the  Little  Notch, 
where  all  the  world  lay  stretched  before 
him  like  the  open  palm  of  his  hand,  and  had 
come  thus  to  the  boundaries  of  the  Undis- 
covered Country.  He  had  been  for  days 
troubled  with  the  deep  problems  of  other 
people,  and  it  seemed  to  him  this  morning 
as  though  a  great  stone  had  been  rolled  from 
the  door  of  his  heart,  and  that  he  was  enter- 
ing upon  a  new  world  —  a  wonderful,  high, 
free  world.  And,  as  he  tramped,  certain 
lines  of  a  stanza  long  ago  caught  up  in  his 
memory  from  some  forgotten  page  came 
up  to  his  lips,  and  these  were  the  words  (you 
did  not  know  as  you  passed)  that  he  was 
chanting  under  his  breath  as  he  tramped,  for 
they  seem  charged  with  the  spirit  of  the  hour: 

I've  bartered  my  sheets  for  a  starlit  bed; 
I've  traded  my  meat  for  a  crust  of  bread; 
I've  changed  my  book  for  a  sapling  cane, 
And  I'm  off  to  the  end  of  the  world  again. 

In  the  Undiscovered  Country  that  morning 
it  was  wonderful  how  fresh  the  spring  woods 


178         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

were,  and  how  the  birds  sang  in  the  trees, 
and  how  the  brook  sparkled  and  murmured 
at  the  roadside.  The  recent  rain  had  washed 
the  atmosphere  until  it  was  as  clear  and  spark- 
ling and  heady  as  new  wine,  and  the  footing 
was  firm  and  hard.  As  one  tramped  he 
could  scarcely  keep  from  singing  or  shouting 
aloud  for  the  very  joy  of  the  day. 

"I  think,"  I  said  to  myself,  "I've  never 
been  in  a  better  country,"  and  it  did  not 
seem  to  me  I  cared  to  know  where  the  gray 
road  ran,  nor  how  far  away  the  blue  hills  were. 

"It  is  wonderful  enough  anywhere  here," 
I  said. 

And  presently  I  turned  from  the  road 
and  climbed  a  gently  sloping  hillside  among 
oak  and  chestnut  trees.  The  earth  was  well 
carpeted  for  my  feet,  and  here  and  there 
upon  the  hillside,  where  the  sun  came  through 
the  green  roof  of  foliage,  were  warm  splashes 
of  yellow  light,  and  here  and  there,  on  shadier 
slopes,  the  new  ferns  were  spread  upon  the 
earth  like  some  lacy  coverlet.  I  finally 
sat  down  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  where  through 
a  rift  in  the  foliage  in  the  valley  below  I 
could  catch  a  glimpse  in  the  distance  of  the 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          179 

meadows  and  the  misty  blue  hills.  I  was 
glad  to  rest,  just  rest,  for  the  two  previous 
days  of  hard  labour,  the  labour  and  the 
tramping,  had  wearied  me,  and  I  sat  for  a 
long  time  quietly  looking  about  me,  scarcely 
thinking  at  all,  but  seeing,  hearing,  smelling 
—  feeling  the  spring  morning,  and  the  woodSj 
and  the  hills,  and  the  patch  of  sky  I  could 
see. 

For  a  long,  long  time  I  sat  thus,  but 
finally  my  mind  began  to  flow  again,  and 
I  thought  how  fine  it  would  be  if  I  had 
some  good  friend  there  with  me  to  enjoy 
the  perfect  surroundings  —  some  friend  who 
would  understand.  And  I  thought  of  the 
Vedders  with  whom  I  had  so  recently  spent 
a  wonderful  day;  and  I  wished  that  they 
might  be  with  me;  there  were  so  many  things 
to  be  said  —  to  be  left  unsaid.  Upon  this 
it  occurred  to  me,  suddenly,  whimsically, 
and  I  exclaimed  aloud: 

"Why,  I'll  just  call  them  up." 

Half  turning  to  the  trunk  of  the  tree 
where  I  sat,  I  placed  one  hand  to  my  ear 
and  the  other  to  my  lips  and  said: 

"Hello,  Central,  give  me  Mr.  Vedder." 

I   waited   a   moment,    smiling   a   little   at 


i8o         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

my  own  absurdity  and  yet  quite  captivated 
by  the  enterprise. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Vedder?  Oh,  Mrs.  Vedder! 
Well,  this  is  David  Grayson."  .  .  . 

"Yes,  the  very  same.  A  bad  penny,  a 
rolling  stone."  .  .  . 

"Yes.  I  want  you  both  to  come  here 
as  quickly  as  you  can.  I  have  the  most 
important  news  for  you.  The  mountain 
laurels  are  blooming,  and  the  wild  straw- 
berries are  setting  their  fruit.  Yes,  yes, 
and  in  the  fields  —  all  around  here,  to-day  — 
there  are  wonderful  white  patches  of  daisies, 
and  from  where  I  sit  I  can  see  an  old  meadow 
as  yellow  as  gold  with  buttercups.  And 
the  bobolinks  are  hovering  over  the  low  spots. 
Oh,  but  it  is  fine  here  —  and  we  are  not  to- 
gether!" .  .  . 

"No;  I  cannot  give  exact  directions.  But 
take  the  Long  Road  and  turn  at  the  turning 
by  the  tulip-tree,  and  you  will  find  me  at 
home.  Come  right  in  without  knocking." 

I  hung  up  the  receiver.  For  a  single 
instant  it  had  seemed  almost  true,  and 
indeed  I  believe  —  I  wonder 

Some   day,    I    thought,   just   a   bit   sadly, 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          181 

for  I  shall  probably  not  be  here  then  — • 
some  day,  we  shall  be  able  to  call  our  friends 
through  space  and  time.  Some  day  we 
shall  discover  that  marvellously  simple  coherer 
by  which  we  may  better  utilize  the  myste- 
rious ether  of  love. 

For  a  time  I  was  sad  with  thoughts  of 
the  unaccomplished  future,  and  then  I  re- 
flected that  if  I  could  not  call  up  the  Vedders 
so  informally  I  could  at  least  write  down  a 
few  paragraphs  which  would  give  them  some 
faint  impression  of  that  time  and  place. 
But  I  had  no  sooner  taken  out  my  note-book 
and  put  down  a  sentence  or  two  than  I  stuck 
fast.  How  foolish  and  feeble  written  words 
are  anyway!  With  what  glib  facility  they 
describe,  but  how  inadequately  they  convey. 
A  thousand  times  I  have  thought  to  myself, 
"If  only  I  could  write!" 

Not  being  able  to  write  I  turned,  as  I 
have  so  often  turned  before,  to  some  good 
old  book,  trusting  that  I  might  find  in  the 
writing  of  another  man  what  I  lacked  in 
my  own.  I  took  out  my  battered  copy 
of  Montaigne  and,  opening  it  at  random,  as 
I  love  to  do,  came,  as  luck  would  have  it, 
upon  a  chapter  devoted  to  coaches,  in  which 


1 82         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

there  is  much  curious  (and  worthless)  in- 
formation, darkened  with  Latin  quotations. 
This  reading  had  an  unexpected  effect  upon 
me. 

I  could  not  seem  to  keep  my  mind  down 
upon  the  printed  page;  it  kept  bounding 
away  at  the  sight  of  the  distant  hills,  at 
the  sound  of  a  woodpecker  on  a  dead  stub 
which  stood  near  me,  and  at  the  thousand  and 
one  faint  rustlings,  creepings,  murmurings, 
tappings,  which  animate  the  mystery  of  the 
forest.  How  dull  indeed  appeared  the  printed 
page  in  comparison  with  the  book  of  life,  how 
shut-in  its  atmosphere,  how  tinkling  and  dis- 
tant the  sound  of  its  voices.  Suddenly  I  shut 
my  book  with  a  snap. 

"Musty  coaches  and  Latin  quotations!" 
I  exclaimed.  "Montaigne's  no  writer  for 
the  open  air.  He  belongs  at  a  study  fire  on 
a  quiet  evening!" 

I  had  anticipated,  when  I  started  out, 
many  a  pleasant  hour  by  the  roadside  or 
in  the  woods  with  my  books,  but  this  was 
almost  the  first  opportunity  I  had  found  for 
reading  (as  it  was  almost  the  last),  so  full 
was  the  present  world  of  stirring  events. 
As  for  poor  old  Montaigne,  I  have  been  out 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          183 

of  harmony  with  him  ever  since,  nor  have 
I  wanted  him  in  the  intimate  case  at  my 
elbow. 

After  a  long  time  in  the  forest,  and  the 
sun  having  reached  the  high  heavens,  I 
gathered  up  my  pack  and  set  forth  again 
along  the  slope  of  the  hills  —  not  hurrying, 
just  drifting  and  enjoying  every  sight  and 
sound.  And  thus  walking  I  came  in  sight, 
through  the  trees,  of  a  glistening  pool  of 
water  and  made  my  way  straight  toward  it. 

A  more  charming  spot  I  have  rarely  seen. 
In  some  former  time  an  old  mill  had  stood 
at  the  foot  of  the  little  valley,  and  a  ruinous 
stone  dam  still  held  the  water  in  a  deep, 
quiet  pond  between  two  round  hills.  Above 
it  a  brook  ran  down  through  the  woods,  and 
below,  with  a  pleasant  musical  sound,  the 
water  dripped  over  the  mossy  stone  lips  of 
the  dam  and  fell  into  the  rocky  pool  below. 
Nature  had  long  ago  healed  the  wounds  of 
men;  she  had  half  covered  the  ruined  mill 
with  verdure,  had  softened  the  stone  walls 
of  the  dam  with  mosses  and  lichens,  and 
had  crept  down  the  steep  hillside  and  was 
now  leaning  so  far  out  over  the  pool  that 


1 84          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

she  could  see  her  reflection  in  the  quiet 
water. 

Near  the  upper  end  of  the  pond  I  found 
a  clear  white  sand-bank,  where  no  doubt 
a  thousand  fishermen  had  stood,  half  hidden 
by  the  willows,  to  cast  for  trout  in  the  pool 
below.  I  intended  merely  to  drink  and 
moisten  my  face,  but  as  I  knelt  by  the  pool 
and  saw  my  reflection  in  the  clear  water  I 
wanted  something  more  than  that!  In  a 
moment  I  had  thrown  aside  my  bag  and 
clothes  and  found  myself  wading  naked  into 
the  water. 

It  was  cold!  I  stood  a  moment  there  in 
the  sunny  air,  the  great  world  open  around  me, 
shuddering,  for  I  dreaded  the  plunge  —  and 
then  with  a  run,  a  shout  and  a  splash  I  took 
the  deep  water.  Oh,  but  it  was  fine!  With 
long,  deep  strokes  I  carried  myself  fairly 
to  the  middle  of  the  pond.  The  first  chill 
was  succeeded  by  a  tingling  glow,  and  I  can 
convey  no  idea  whatever  of  the  glorious 
sense  of  exhilaration  I  had.  I  swam  with 
the  broad  front  stroke,  I  swam  on  my  side, 
head  half  submerged,  with  a  deep  under 
stroke,  and  I  rolled  over  on  my  back  and 
swam  with  the  water  lapping  my  chin.  Thus 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          185 

I  came  to  the  end  of  the  pool  near  the  old 
dam,  touched  my  feet  on  the  bottom,  gave  a 
primeval  whoop,  and  dove  back  into  the 
water  again.  I  have  rarely  experienced  keener 
physical  joy.  After  swimming  thus  bois- 
terously for  a  time,  I  quieted  down  to  long, 
leisurely  strokes,  conscious  of  the  water  play- 
ing across  my  shoulders  and  singing  at  my 
ears,  and  finally,  reaching  the  centre  of  the 
pond,  I  turned  over  on  my  back  and,  paddling 
lazily,  watched  the  slow  procession  of  light 
clouds  across  the  sunlit  openings  of  the 
trees  above  me.  Away  up  in  the  sky  I 
could  see  a  hawk  slowly  swimming  about 
(in  his  element  as  I  was  in  mine),  and  nearer 
at  hand,  indeed  fairly  in  the  thicket  about 
the  pond,  I  could  hear  a  wood-thrush  singing. 

And  so,  shaking  the  water  out  of  my  hair 
and  swimming  with  long  and  leisurely  strokes, 
I  returned  to  the  sand-bank,  and  there, 
standing  in  a  spot  of  warm  sunshine,  I  dried 
myself  with  the  towel  from  my  bag.  And 
I  said  to  myself: 

"Surely  it  is  good  to  be  alive  at  a  time 
like  this!" 

Slowly  I  drew  on  my  clothes,  idling  there 
in  the  sand,  and  afterward  I  found  an  in- 


1 86         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

viting  spot  in  an  old  meadow  where  I  threw 
myself  down  on  the  grass  under  an  apple- 
tree  and  looked  up  into  the  shadowy  places 
in  the  foliage  above  me.  I  felt  a  delicious 
sense  of  physical  well-being,  and  I  was  pleas- 
antly tired. 

So  I  lay  there  —  and  the  next  thing  I 
knew,  I  turned  over,  feeling  cold  and  stiff, 
and  opened  my  eyes  upon  the  dusky  shadows 
of  late  evening.  I  had  been  sleeping  for 
hours! 

The  next  few  minutes  (or  was  it  an  hour, 
or  eternity?),  I  recall  as  containing  some 
of  the  most  exciting  and,  when  all  is  said, 
amusing  incidents  in  my  whole  life.  And 
I  got  quite  a  new  glimpse  of  that  sometimes 
bumptious  person  known  as  David  Grayson. 

The  first  sensation  I  had  was  one  of  com- 
plete panic.  What  was  I  to  do?  Where 
was  I  to  go  ? 

Hastily  seizing  my  bag  —  and  before  I 
was  half  awake  —  I  started  rapidly  across 
the  meadow,  in  my  excitement  tripping  and 
falling  several  times  in  the  first  hundred 
yards.  In  daylight  I  have  -no  doubt  that 
I  should  easily  have  seen  a  gateway  or  at 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          187 

least  an  opening  from  the  old  meadow,  but 
in  the  fast-gathering  darkness  it  seemed  to 
me  that  the  open  field  was  surrounded  on 
every  side  by  impenetrable  forests.  Absurd 
as  it  may  seem,  for  no  one  knows  what  his 
mind  will  do  at  such  a  moment,  I  recalled 
vividly  a  passage  from  Stanley's  story  of  his 
search  for  Livingstone,  in  which  he  relates 
how  he  escaped  from  a  difficult  place  in  the 
jungle  by  KEEPING  STRAIGHT  AHEAD. 

I  print  these  words  in  capitals  because 
they  seemed  written  that  night  upon  the 
sky.  Keeping  straight  ahead,  I  entered  the 
forest  on  one  side  of  the  meadow  (with 
quite  a  heroic  sense  of  adventure),  but 
scraped  my  shin  on  a  fallen  log  and  ran 
into  a  tree  with  bark  on  it  that  felt  like 
a  gigantic  currycomb  —  and  stopped! 

Up  to  this  point  I  think  I  was  still  partly 
asleep.  Now,  however,  I  waked  up. 

"All  you  need,"  said  I  to  myself  in  my 
most  matter-of-fact  tone,  "is  a  little  cool 
sense.  Be  quiet  now  and  reason  it  out." 

So  I  stood  there  for  some  moments  reason- 
ing it  out,  with  the  result  that  I  turned  back 
and  found  the  meadow  again. 

"What  a  fool  I've  been!"  I  said.     "Isn't 


r88         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

it  perfectly  plain  that  I  should  have  gone 
down  to  the  pond,  crossed  over  the  inlet, 
and  reached  the  road  by  the  way  I  came?" 

Having  thus  settled  my  problem,  and 
congratulating  myself  on  my  perspicacity, 
I  started  straight  for  the  mill-pond,  but 
to  my  utter  amazement,  in  the  few  short 
hours  while  I  had  been  asleep,  that  entire 
body  of  water  had  evaporated,  the  dam  had 
disappeared,  and  the  stream  had  dried  up. 
I  must  certainly  present  the  facts  in  this 
remarkable  case  to  some  learned  society. 

I  then  decided  to  return  to  the  old  apple- 
tree  where  I  had  slept,  which  now  seemed 
quite  like  home,  but,  strange  to  relate,  the 
apple-tree  had  also  completely  vanished  from 
the  enchanted  meadow.  At  that  I  began 
to  suspect  that  in  coming  out  of  the  forest  I 
had  somehow  got  into  another  and  somewhat 
similar  old  field.  I  have  never  had  a  more  con- 
fused or  eerie  sensation;  not  fear,  but  a  sort 
of  helplessness  in  which  for  an  instant  I  actu- 
ally began  to  doubt  whether  it  was  really  I 
myself,  David  Grayson,  who  stood  there  in 
the  dark  meadow,  or  whether  I  was  the 
victim  of  a  peculiarly  bad  dream.  I  suppose 
many  other  people  have  had  these  sensations 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          189 

under  similar  conditions,  but  they  were  new 
to  me. 

I  turned  slowly  around  and  looked  for 
a  light;  I  think  I  never  wanted  so  much 
to  see  some  sign  of  human  habitation  as  I 
did  at  that  moment. 

What  a  coddled  world  we  live  in,  truly. 
That  being  out  after  dark  in  a  meadow  should 
so  disturb  the  very  centre  of  our  being! 
In  all  my  life,  indeed,  and  I  suppose  the 
same  is  true  of  ninty-nine  out  of  a  hundred 
of  the  people  in  America  to-day,  I  had  never 
before  found  myself  where  nothing  stood 
between  nature  and  me,  where  I  had  no 
place  to  sleep,  no  shelter  for  the  night  — 
nor  any  prospect  of  finding  one.  I  was 
infinitely  less  resourceful  at  that  moment  than 
a  rabbit,  or  a  partridge,  or  a  gray  squirrel. 

Presently  I  sat  down  on  the  ground  where 
I  had  been  standing,  with  a  vague  fear  (absurd 
to  look  back  upon !)  that  it,  too,  in  some  man- 
ner might  slip  away  from  under  me.  And  as 
I  sat  there  I  began  to  have  familiar  gnawings 
at  the  pit  of  my  stomach,  and  I  remembered 
that,  save  for  a  couple  of  Mrs.  Clark's  dough- 
nuts eaten  while  I  was  sitting  on  the  hillside, 


190         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

ages  ago,  I  had  had  nothing  since  my  early 
breakfast. 

With  this  thought  of  my  predicament  — 
and  the  glimpse  I  had  of  myself  "hungry 
and  homeless"  —  the  humour  of  the  whole 
situation  suddenly  came  over  me,  and,  be- 
ginning with  a  chuckle,  I  wound  up,  as  my 
mind  dwelt  upon  my  recent  adventures,  with 
a  long,  loud,  hearty  laugh. 

As  I  laughed  —  and  what  a  roar  it  made 
in  that  darkness!  —  I  got  up  on  my  feet 
and  looked  up  at  the  sky.  One  bright 
star  shone  out  over  the  woods,  and  in  the 
high  heavens  I  could  see  dimly  the  white 
path  of  the  Milky  Way.  And  all  at  once  I 
seemed  again  to  be  in  command  of  myself 
and  of  the  world.  I  felt  a  sudden  lift  and 
thrill  of  the  spirits,  a  warm  sense  that  this 
too  was  part  of  the  great  adventure  —  the 
Thing  Itself. 

"This  is  the  light,"  I  said  looking  up 
again  at  the  sky  and  the  single  bright  star, 
"which  is  set  for  me  to-night.  I  will  make 
my  bed  by  it." 

I  can  hope  to  make  no  one  understand 
(unless  he  understands  already)  with  what 
joy  of  adventure  I  now  crept  through  the 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          191 

meadow  toward  the  wood.  It  was  an  un- 
known, unexplored  world  I  was  in,  and  I, 
the  fortunate  discoverer,  had  here  to  shift 
for  himself,  make  his  home  under  the  stars! 
Marquette  on  the  wild  shores  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi, or  Stanley  in  Africa,  had  no  joy  that 
I  did  not  know  at  that  moment. 

I  crept  along  the  meadow  and  came  at 
last  to  the  wood.  Here  I  chose  a  somewhat 
sheltered  spot  at  the  foot  of  a  large  tree  — 
and  yet  a  spot  not  so  obscured  that  I  could 
not  look  out  over  the  open  spaces  of  the 
meadow  and  see  the  sky.  Here,  groping  in  the 
darkness,  like  some  primitive  creature,  I  raked 
together  a  pile  of  leaves  with  my  fingers, 
and  found  dead  twigs  and  branches  of  trees; 
but  in  that  moist  forest  (where  the  rain  had 
fallen  only  the  day  before)  my  efforts  to 
kindle  a  fire  were  unavailing.  Upon  this,  I 
considered  using  some  pages  from  my  note- 
book, but  another  alternative  suggested  itself: 

"  Why  not  Montaigne  ? " 

With  that  I  groped  for  the  familiar  volume, 
and  with  a  curious  sensation  of  satisfaction 
I  tore  out  a  handful  of  pages  from  the  back. 

"Better  Montaigne  than  Grayson,"  I  said, 
with  a  chuckle.  It  was  amazing  how  Mon- 


1 92         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

taigne  sparkled  and  crackled  when  he  was 
well  lighted. 

"There  goes  a  bundle  of  quotations  from 
Vergil,"  I  said,  "and  there's  his  observations 
on  the  eating  of  fish.  There  are  more  uses 
than  one  for  the  classics." 

So  I  ripped  out  a  good  part  of  another 
chapter,  and  thus,  by  coaxing,  got  my  fire  to 
going.  It  was  not  difficult  after  that  to  find 
enough  fuel  to  make  it  blaze  up  warmly. 

I  opened  my  bag  and  took  out  the  remnants 
of  the  luncheon  which  Mrs.  Clark  had  given 
me  that  morning;  and  I  was  surprised  and 
delighted  to  find,  among  the  other  things,  a 
small  bottle  of  coffee.  This  suggested  all 
sorts  of  pleasing  possibilities  and,  the  spirit 
of  invention  being  now  awakened,  I  got  out 
my  tin  cup,  split  a  sapling  stick  so  that  I 
could  fit  it  into  the  handle,  and  set  the  cup, 
full  of  coffee,  on  the  coals  at  the  edge  of  the 
fire.  It  was  soon  heated,  and  although  I 
spilled  some  of  it  in  getting  it  off,  and 
although  it  was  well  spiced  with  ashes,  I 
enjoyed  it,  with  Mrs.  Clark's  doughnuts 
and  sandwiches  (some  of  which  I  toasted 
with  a  sapling  fork)  as  thoroughly,  I  think, 
as  ever  I  enjoyed  any  meal. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          193 

How  little  we  know  —  we  who  dread  life 
—  how  much  there  is  in  life ! 

My  activities  around  the  fire  had  warmed 
me  to  the  bone,  and  after  I  was  well  through 
with  my  meal  I  gathered  a  plentiful  supply 
of  wood  and  placed  it  near  at  hand,  I  got 
out  my  waterproof  cape  and  put  it  on,  and, 
finally  piling  more  sticks  on  the  fire,  I  sat 
down  comfortably  at  the  foot  of  the  tree. 

I  wish  I  could  convey  the  mystery  and 
the  beauty  of  that  night.  Did  you  ever  sit 
by  a  campfire  and  watch  the  flames  dance, 
and  the  sparks  fly  upward  into  the  cool  dark 
air?  Did  you  ever  see  the  fitful  light  among 
the  tree-depths,  at  one  moment  opening 
vast  shadowy  vistas  into  the  forest,  at  the 
next  dying  downward  and  leaving  it  all  in 
sombre  mystery?  It  came  to  me  that  night 
with  the  wonderful  vividness  of  a  fresh  ex- 
perience. 

And  what  a  friendly  and  companionable 
thing  a  campfire  is!  How  generous  and 
outright  it  isl  It  plays  for  you  when  you 
wish  to  be  lively,  and  it  glows  for  you  when 
you  wish  to  be  reflective. 

After  a  while,  for  I  did  not  feel  in  the 


194         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

least  sleepy,  I  stepped  out  of  the  woods  to 
the  edge  of  the  pasture.  All  around  me  lay 
the  dark  and  silent  earth,  and  above  the 
blue  bowl  of  the  sky,  all  glorious  with  the 
blaze  of  a  million  worlds.  Sometimes  I 
have  been  oppressed  by  this  spectacle  of  utter 
space,  of  infinite  distance,  of  forces  too  great 
for  me  to  grasp  or  understand,  but  that  night 
it  came  upon  me  with  fresh  wonder  and 
power,  and  with  a  sense  of  great  humility, 
that  I  belonged  here  too,  that  I  was  a  part 
of  it  all  —  and  would  not  be  neglected  or 
forgotten.  It  seemed  to  me  I  never  had  a 
moment  of  greater  faith  than  that. 

And  so,  with  a  sense  of  satisfaction  and 
peace,  I  returned  to  my  fire.  As  I  sat  there 
I  could  hear  the  curious  noises  of  the  woods, 
the  little  droppings,  cracklings,  rustlings 
which  seemed  to  make  all  the  world  alive. 
I  even  fancied  I  could  see  small  bright  eyes 
looking  out  at  my  fire,  and  once  or  twice  I 
was  almost  sure  I  heard  voices  —  whispering 
—  whispering  —  perhaps  the  voices  of  the 
woods. 

Occasionally  I  added,with  some  amusement, 
a  few  dry  pages  of  Montaigne  to  the  fire,  and 
watched  the  cheerful  blaze  that  followed. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          195 

"No,"  said  I,  "Montaigne  is  not  for  the 
open  spaces  and  the  stars.  Without  a  roof 
over  his  head  Montaigne  would  —  well,  die 
of  sneezing!" 

So  I  sat  all  night  long  there  by  the  tree. 
Occasionally  I  dropped  into  a  light  sleep,  and 
then,  as  my  fire  died  down,  I  grew  chilly  and 
awakened,  to  build  up  the  fire  and  doze 
again.  I  saw  the  first  faint  gray  streaks  of 
dawn  above  the  trees,  I  saw  the  pink  glow 
in  the  east  before  the  sunrise,  and  I  watched 
the  sun  himself  rise  upon  a  new  day 

When  I  walked  out  into  the  meadow  by 
daylight  and  looked  about  me  curiously, 
I  saw,  not  forty  rods  away,  the  back  of  a  barn. 

"  Be  you  the  fellow  that  was  daown  in  my 
cowpastur'  all  night?"  asked  the  sturdy 
farmer. 

"I'm  that  fellow,"  I  said. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  right  up  to  the 
house?" 

"Well "  I  said,  and  then  paused. 

"Well  ."said  I. 


THE  HEDGE 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  HEDGE 

STRANGE,  strange,  how  small  the  big 
world  is! 

"Why  didn't  you  come  right  into  the 
house?"  the  sturdy  farmer  had  asked  me 
when  I  came  out  of  the  meadow  where  I 
had  spent  the  night  under  the  stars. 

"Well,"  I  said,  turning  the  question  as 
adroitly  as  I  could,  "I'll  make  it  up  by  going 
into  the  house  now." 

So  I  went  with  him  into  his  fine,  comfort- 
able house. 

"This  is  my  wife,"  said  he. 

A  woman  stood  there  facing  me.  "Oh!" 
she  exclaimed,  "Mr.  Grayson!" 

I  recalled  swiftly  a  child  —  a  child  she 
seemed  then  —  with  braids  down  her  back, 
whom  I  had  known  when  I  first  came  to 
199 


200         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

my  farm.  She  had  grown  up,  married, 
and  had  borne  three  children,  while  I  had 
been  looking  the  other  way  for  a  minute 
or  two.  She  had  not  been  in  our  neighbour- 
hood for  several  years. 

"And  how  is  your  sister  and  Doctor  Mc- 
Alway?" 

Well,  we  had  quite  a  wonderful  visit,  and 
she  made  breakfast  for  me,  asking  questions 
and  talking  eagerly  as  I  ate. 

"We've  just  had  news  that  old  Mr. 
Toombs  is  dead." 

"Dead!"  I  exclaimed,  dropping  my  fork; 
"old  Nathan  Toombs!" 

"Yes,  he  was  my  uncle.  Did  you  know 
him?" 

"I  knew  Nathan  Toombs,"  I  said. 

I  spent  two  days  there  with  the  Ransomes, 
for  they  would  not  hear  of  my  leaving,  and 
half  of  our  spare  time,  I  think,  was  spent  in 
discussing  Nathan  Toombs.  I  was  not  able 
to  get  him  out  of  my  mind  for  days,  for  his 
death  was  one  of  those  events  which  prove 
so  much  and  leave  so  much  unproven. 

I  can  recall  vividly  my  astonishment  at 
the  first  evidence  I  ever  had  of  the  strange 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          201 

old  man  or  of  his  work.  It  was  not  very 
long  after  I  came  to  my  farm  to  live.  I 
had  taken  to  spending  my  spare  evenings  — 
the  long  evenings  of  summer  —  in  exploring 
the  country  roads  for  miles  around,  getting 
acquainted  with  each  farmstead,  each  bit 
of  grove  and  meadow  and  marsh,  making 
my  best  bow  to  each  unfamiliar  hill,  and 
taking  everywhere  that  toll  of  pleasure  which 
comes  of  quiet  discovery. 

One  evening,  having  walked  farther  than 
usual,  I  came  quite  suddenly  around  a  turn 
in  the  road  and  saw  stretching  away  before 
me  an  extraordinary  sight. 

I  feel  that  I  am  conveying  no  adequate 
impression  of  what  I  beheld  by  giving  it 
any  such  prim  and  decorous  name  as  —  a 
Hedge.  It  was  a  menagerie,  a  living,  green 
menagerie!  I  had  no  sooner  seen  it  than  I 
began  puzzling  my  brain  as  to  whether  one 
of  the  curious  ornaments  into  which  the 
upper  part  of  the  hedge  had  been  clipped 
and  trimmed  was  made  to  represent  the  head 
of  a  horse,  or  a  camel,  or  an  Egyptian  sphinx. 

The  hedge  was  of  arbor  vitae  and  as  high 
as  a  man's  waist.  At  more  or  less  regular 
intervals  the  trees  in  it  had  been  allowed 


202         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

to  grow  much  taller  and  had  been  wonderfully 
pruned  into  the  similitude  of  towers,  pin- 
nacles, bells,  and  many  other  strange  designs. 
Here  and  there  the  hedge  held  up  a  spindling 
umbrella  of  greenery,  sometimes  a  double 
umbrella  —  a  little  one  above  the  big  one  — 
and  over  the  gateway  at  the  centre,  as  a  sort 
of  final  triumph,  rose  a  grandiose  arch  of 
interlaced  branches  upon  which  the  art- 
ist had  outdone  himself  in  marvels  of  orna- 
mentation. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  sensation  of  delight 
I  had  over  this  discovery,  or  of  how  I  walked, 
tiptoe,  along  the  road  in  front,  studying 
each  of  the  marvellous  adornments.  How 
eagerly,  too,  I  looked  over  at  the  house  beyond 
—  a  rather  bare,  bleak  house  set  on  a  slight 
knoll  or  elevation  and  guarded  at  one  corner 
by  a  dark  spruce  tree.  At  some  distance 
behind  I  saw  a  number  of  huge  barns,  a  cat- 
tle yard  and  a  silo  —  all  the  evidences  of 
prosperity  —  with  well-nurtured  fields,  now 
yellowing  with  the  summer  crops,  spreading 
pleasantly  away  on  every  hand. 

It  was  nearly  dark  before  I  left  that  bit 
of  roadside,  and  I  shall  never  forget  the 
eerie  impression  I  had  as  I  turned  back  to 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          203 

take  a  final  look  at  the  hedge,  the  strange, 
grotesque  aspect  it  presented  there  in  the 
half  light  with  the  bare,  lonely  house  rising 
from  the  knoll  behind. 


It  was  not  until  some  weeks  later  that  I 
met  the  owner  of  the  wonderful  hedge. 
By  that  time,  however,  having  learned  of 
my  interest,  I  found  the  whole  countryside 
alive  with  stories  about  it  and  about  Old 
Nathan  Toombs,  its  owner.  It  was  as 
though  I  had  struck  the  rock  of  refreshment 
in  a  weary  land. 

I  remember  distinctly  how  puzzled  I  was 
by  the  stones  I  heard.  The  neighbourhood 
portrait  —  and  ours  is  really  a  friendly  neigh- 
bourhood —  was  by  no  means  flattering. 
Old  Toombs  was  apparently  of  that  type 
of  hard-shelled,  grasping,  self-reliant,  old- 
fashioned  farmer  not  unfamiliar  to  many 
country  neighbourhoods.  He  had  come  of 
tough  old  American  stock  and  he  was  a 
worker,  a  saver,  and  thus  he  had  grown  rich} 
the  richest  farmer  in  the  whole  neighbourhood. 
He  was  a  regular  individualistic  American. 

"A  dour  man,"  said  the  Scotch  Preacher, 
"but  just  —  you  must  admit  that  he  is  just." 


204         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

There  was  no  man  living  about  whom 
the  Scotch  Preacher  could  not  find  some- 
thing good  to  say. 

"Yes,  just,"  replied  Horace,  skeptically, 
"but  hard  —  hard,  and  as  mean  as  pusley." 

This  portrait  was  true  enough  in  itself, 
for  I  knew  just  the  sort  of  an  aggressive, 
undoubtedly  irritable  old  fellow  it  pictured, 
but  somehow,  try  as  I  would,  I  could  not 
see  any  such  old  fellow  wasting  his  moneyed 
hours  clipping  bells,  umbrellas,  and  camel's 
heads  on  his  ornamental  greenery.  It  left 
just  that  incongruity  which  is  at  once  the 
lure,  the  humour,  and  the  perplexity  of 
human  life.  Instead  of  satisfying  my  curi- 
osity I  was  more  anxious  than  ever  to  see 
Old  Toombs  with  my  own  eyes. 

But  the  weeks  passed  and  somehow  I 
did  not  meet  him.  He  was  a  lonely,  un- 
neighbourly  old  fellow.  He  had  appar- 
ently come  to  fit  into  the  community  without 
ever  really  becoming  a  part  of  it.  His 
neighbours  accepted  him  as  they  accepted 
a  hard  hill  in  the  town  road.  From  time 
to  time  he  would  foreclose  a  mortgage  where 
he  had  loaned  money  to  some  less  thrifty 
farmer,  or  he  would  extend  his  acres  by  pur- 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD         205 

chase,  hard  cash  down,  or  he  would  build  a 
bigger  barn.  When  any  of  these  things 
happened  the  community  would  crowd  over 
a  little,  as  it  were,  to  give  him  more  room. 
It  is  a  curious  thing,  and  tragic,  too,  when 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  how  the  world  lets 
alone  those  people  who  appear  to  want  to  be 
let  alone.  "I  can  live  to  myself,"  says  the 
unneighbourly  one.  "Well,  live  to  yourself, 
then,"  cheerfully  responds  the  world,  and  it 
goes  about  its  more  or  less  amusing  affairs  and 
lets  the  unneighbourly  one  cut  himself  off. 

So  our  small  community  had  let  Old 
Toombs  go  his  way  with  all  his  money, 
his  acres,  his  hedge,  and  his  reputation  for 
being  a  just  man. 

Not  meeting  him,  therefore,  in  the  familiar 
and  friendly  life  of  the  neighbourhood,  I 
took  to  walking  out  toward  his  farm,  looking 
freshly  at  the  wonderful  hedge  and  musing 
upon  that  most  fascinating  of  all  subjects  — 
how  men  come  to  be  what  they  are.  And 
at  last  I  was  rewarded. 

One  day  I  had  scarcely  reached  the  end 
of  the  hedge  when  I  saw  Old  Toombs  himself 
moving  toward  me  down  the  country  road. 
Though  I  had  never  seen  him  before,  I  was 


206         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

at  no  loss  to  identify  him.  The  first  and 
vital  impression  he  gave  me,  if  I  can  compress 
it  into  a  single  word,  was,  I  think,  force  — 
force.  He  came  stubbing  down  the  country 
road  with  a  brown  hickory  stick  in  his  hand, 
which  at  every  step  he  set  vigorously  into 
the  soft  earth.  Though  not  tall,  he  gave  the 
impression  of  being  enormously  strong.  He 
was  thick,  solid,  firm  —  thick  through  the 
body,  thick  through  the  thighs;  and  his 
shoulders  —  what  shoulders  they  were!  — 
round  like  a  maple  log;  and  his  great  head 
with  its  thatching  of  coarse  iron-gray  hair, 
though  thrust  slightly  forward,  seemed  set 
immovably  upon  them. 

He  presented  such  a  forbidding  appearance 
that  I  was  of  two  minds  about  addressing 
him.  Dour  he  was  indeed  1  Nor  shall  I 
ever  forget  how  he  looked  when  I  spoke  to 
him.  He  stopped  short  there  in  the  road. 
On  his  big  square  nose  he  wore  a  pair  of 
curious  spring-bowed  glasses  with  black  rims. 
For  a  moment  he  looked  at  me  through 
these  glasses,  raising  his  chin  a  little,  and 
then,  deliberately  wrinkling  his  nose,  they 
fell  off  and  dangled  at  the  length  of  the 
faded  cord  by  which  they  were  hung.  There 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          207 

was  something  almost  uncanny  about  this 
peculiar  habit  of  his  and  of  the  way  in  which, 
afterward,  he  looked  at  me  from  under 
his  bushy  gray  brows.  This  was  in  truth 
the  very  man  of  the  neighbourhood  por- 
trait. 

"I  am  a  new  settler  here,"  I  said,  "and 
I've  been  interested  in  looking  at  your  won- 
derful hedge." 

The  old  man's  eyes  rested  upon  me  a 
moment  with  a  mingled  look  of  suspicion 
and  hostility. 

"So  you've  heard  o'  me,"  he  said  in  a 
high-pitched  voice,  "and  you've  heard  o' 
my  hedge." 

Again  he  paused  and  looked  me  over. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  an  indescribably 
harsh,  cackling  laugh,  "I  warrant  you've 
heard  nothing  good  o'  me  down  there.  I'm 
a  skinflint,  ain't  I?  I'm  a  hard  citizen,  ain't 
I?  I  grind  the  faces  o'  the  poor,  don't  I?" 

At  first  his  words  were  marked  by  a 
sort  of  bitter  humour,  but  as  he  continued 
to  speak  his  voice  rose  higher  and  higher 
until  it  was  positively  menacing. 

There  were  just  two  things  I  could  do  — 
haul  down  the  flag  and  retreat  ingloriously, 


208          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

or  face  the  music.  With  a  sudden  sense  of 
rising  spirits  —  for  such  things  do  not  often 
happen  to  a  man  in  a  quiet  country  road  —  I 
paused  a  moment,  looking  him  squarely  in 
the  eye. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  with  great  deliberation, 
"you've  given  me  just  about  the  neighbour- 
hood picture  of  yourself  as  I  have  had  it. 
They  do  say  you  are  a  skinflint,  yes,  and  a 
hard  man.  They  say  that  you  are  rich  and 
friendless ;  they  say  that  while  you  are  a  just 
man,  you  do  not  know  mercy.  These  are 
terrible  things  to  say  of  any  man  if  they  are 
true." 

I  paused.  The  old  man  looked  for  a 
moment  as  though  he  were  going  to  strike 
me  with  his  stick,  but  he  neither  stirred 
nor  spoke.  It  was  evidently  a  wholly  new 
experience  for  him. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "you  are  not  popular  in 
this  community,  but  what  do  you  suppose 
I  care  about  that?  I'm  interested  in  your 
hedge.  What  Fm  curious  to  know  —  and  I 
might  as  well  tell  you  frankly  —  is  how  such 
a  man  as  you  are  reputed  to  be  could  grow 
such  an  extraordinary  hedge.  You  must  have 
been  at  it  a  very  long  time." 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          209 

I  was  surprised  at  the  effect  of  my  words. 
The  old  man  turned  partly  aside  and  looked 
for  a  moment  along  the  proud  and  flaunting 
embattlements  of  the  green  marvel  before  us. 
Then  he  said  in  a  moderate  voice: 

"It's  a  putty  good  hedge,  a  putty  good 
hedge." 

"I've  got  him,"  I  thought  exultantly. 
"I've  got  him!" 

"How  long  ago  did  you  start  it?"  I  pur- 
sued my  advantage  eagerly. 

"Thirty- two  years  come  spring,"  said  he. 

"Thirty-two  years!"  I  repeated;  "you've 
been  at  it  a  long  time." 

With  that  I  plied  him  with  questions  in 
the  liveliest  manner,  and  in  five  minutes  I 
had  the  gruff  old  fellow  stumping  along  at 
my  side  and  pointing  out  the  various  notable 
features  of  his  wonderful  creation.  His  sup- 
pressed excitement  was  quite  wonderful  to 
see.  He  would  point  his  hickory  stick  with  a 
poking  motion,  and,when  he  looked  up,  instead 
of  throwing  back  his  big,  rough  head,  he 
bent  at  the  hips,  thus  imparting  an  impression 
of  astonishing  solidity. 

"It  took  me  all  o'  ten  years  to  get  that 
bell  right,"  he  said,  and,  "Take  a  look 


210         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

at  that  arch:  now  what  is  your  opinion  o* 
that?" 

Once,  in  the  midst  of  our  conversation, 
he  checked  himself  abruptly  and  looked 
around  at  me  with  a  sudden  dark  expres- 
sion of  suspicion.  I  saw  exactly  what  lay 
in  his  mind,  but  I  continued  my  questioning 
as  though  I  perceived  no  change  in  him. 
It  was  only  momentary,  however,  and  he 
was  soon  as  much  interested  as  before.  He 
talked  as  though  he  had  not  had  such  an 
opportunity  before  in  years  —  and  I  doubt 
whether  he  had.  It  was  plain  to  see  that 
if  any  one  ever  loved  anything  in  this  world, 
Old  Toombs  loved  that  hedge  of  his.  Think 
of  it,  indeed!  He  had  lived  with  it,  nur- 
tured it,  clipped  it,  groomed  it  —  for  thirty- 
two  years. 

So  we  walked  down  the  sloping  field  within 
the  hedge,  and  it  seemed  as  though  one  of 
the  deep  mysteries  of  human  nature  was 
opening  there  before  me.  What  strange 
things  men  set  their  hearts  upon! 

Thus,  presently,  we  came  nearly  to  the 
farther  end  of  the  hedge.  Here  the  old 
man  stopped  and  turned  around,  facing  me. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD         211 

"Do  you  see  that  valley?"  he  asked. 
"Do  you  see  that  slopin'  valley  up  through 
my  meadow?" 

His  voice  rose  suddenly  to  a  sort  of  high- 
pitched  violence. 

"That  passel  o'  hounds  up  there,"  he  said, 
"want  to  build  a  road  down  my  valley." 

He  drew  his  breath  fiercely. 

"They  want  to  build  a  road  through 
my  land.  They  want  to  ruin  my  farm  — 
they  want  to  cut  down  my  hedge.  I'll 
fight  'em.  I'll  fight  'em.  I'll  show  'em 
yet!" 

It  was  appalling.  His  face  grew  purple, 
his  eyes  narrowed  to  pin  points  and  grew  red 
and  angry  —  like  the  eyes  of  an  infuriated 
boar.  His  hands  shook.  Suddenly  he  turned 
upon  me,  poising  his  stick  in  his  hand,  and 
said  violently. 

"And  who  are  you?  Who  are  you?  Are 
you  one  of  these  surveyor  fellows?" 

"My  name,"  I  answered  as  quietly  as  I 
could,  "is  Grayson.  I  live  on  the  old  Mather 
farm.  I  am  not  in  the  least  interested  in 
any  of  your  road  troubles." 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment  more,  and  then 
seemed  to  shake  himself  or  shudder,  his  eyes 


212         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

dropped  away  and  he  began  walking  toward 
his  house.  He  had  taken  only  a  few  steps, 
however,  before  he  turned,  and,  without  look- 
ing at  me,  asked  if  I  would  like  to  see  the 
tools  he  used  for  trimming  his  hedge.  When 
I  hesitated,  for  I  was  decidedly  uncomfort- 
able, he  came  up  to  me  and  laid  his  hand 
awkwardly  on  my  arm. 

"You'll  see  something,  I  warrant,  you 
never  see  before." 

It  was  so  evident  that  he  regretted  his 
outbreak  that  I  followed  him,  and  he  showed 
me  an  odd  double  ladder  set  on  low  wheels 
which  he  said  he  used  in  trimming  the  higher 
parts  of  his  hedge. 

"It's  my  own  invention,"  he  said  with 
pride. 

"And  that"  —  he  pointed  as  we  came  out 
of  the  tool  shed  —  "is  my  house  —  a  good 
house.  I  planned  it  all  myself.  I  never 
needed  to  take  lessons  of  any  carpenter  I  ever 
see.  And  there's  my  barns.  What  do  you 
think  o'  my  barns?  Ever  see  any  bigger 
ones?  They  ain't  any  bigger  in  this  country 
than  Old  Toombs's  barns.  They  don't  like 
Old  Toombs,  but  they  ain't  any  of  'em  can 
ekal  his  barns!" 


"  ;  /'//  fight  'em,  I'll  show  'em  yet! '  " 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          213 

He  followed  me  down  to  the  roadside 
now  quite  loquacious.  Even  after  I  had 
thanked  him  and  started  to  go  he  called  after 
me.  When  I  stopped  he  came  forward  hesita- 
tingly —  and  I  had  the  impressions,  suddenly, 
and  for  the  first  time  that  he  was  an  old  man. 
It  may  have  been  the  result  of  his  sudden 
fierce  explosion  of  anger,  but  his  hand  shook, 
his  face  was  pale,  and  he  seemed  somehow 
broken. 

"You  —  you  like  my  hedge?"  he  asked. 

"It  is  certainly  a  wonderful  hedge,"  I  said. 
"I  never  have  seen  anything  like  it." 

"The'  ain't  nothing  like  it,"  he  responded, 
quickly.  "The'  ain't  nothing  like  it  any- 
where." 

In  the  twilight  as  I  passed  onward  I  saw  the 
lonely  figure  of  the  old  man  moving  with  his 
hickory  stick  up  the  pathway  to  his  lonely 
house.  The  poor  rich  old  man! 

"He  thinks  he  can  live  wholly  to  himself," 
I  said  aloud. 

I  thought,  as  I  tramped  homeward,  of 
our  friendly  and  kindly  community,  of  how 
we  often  come  together  of  an  evening  with 
skylarking  and  laughter,  of  how  we  weep 
with  one  another,  of  how  we  join  in  making 


214          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

better  roads  and  better  schools,  and  in  build- 
ing up  the  Scotch  Preacher's  friendly  little 
church.  And  in  all  these  things  Old  Toombs 
has  never  had  a  part.  He  is  not  even  missed. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  reflected,  and  this 
is  a  strange,  deep  thing,  no  man  is  in  reality 
more  dependent  upon  the  community  which 
he  despises  and  holds  at  arm's  length  than 
this  same  Old  Nathan  Toombs.  Everything 
he  has,  everything  he  does,  gives  evidence 
of  it.  And  I  don't  mean  this  in  any  mere 
material  sense,  though  of  course  his  wealth 
and  his  farm  would  mean  no  more  than  the 
stones  in  his  hills  to  him  if  he  did  not  have 
us  here  around  him.  Without  our  work, 
our  buying,  our  selling,  our  governing,  his 
dollars  would  be  dust.  But  we  are  still 
more  necessary  to  him  in  other  ways :  the  un- 
friendly man  is  usually  the  one  who  demands 
most  from  his  neighbours.  Thus,  if  he  have 
not  people's  love  or  confidence,  then  he  wrill 
smite  them  until  they  fear  him,  or  admire 
him,  or  hate  him.  Oh,  no  man,  however  he 
may  try,  can  hold  himself  aloof! 

I  came  home  deeply  stirred  from  my  visit 
with  Old  Toombs  and  lost  no  time  in  making 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          215 

further  inquiries.  I  learned,  speedily,  that 
there  was  indeed  something  in  the  old  man's 
dread  of  a  road  being  built  through  his  farm. 
The  case  was  already  in  the  courts.  His 
farm  was  a  very  old  one  and  extensive,  and 
of  recent  years  a  large  settlement  of  small 
farmers  had  been  developing  the  rougher 
lands  in  the  upper  part  of  the  township, 
called  the  Swan  Hill  district.  Their  only 
\vay  to  reach  the  railroad  was  by  a  rocky, 
winding  road  among  the  hills,  while  their 
natural  outlet  was  down  a  gently  sloping 
valley  through  Old  Toombs's  farm.  They 
were  now  so  numerous  and  politically  im- 
portant that  they  had  stirred  up  the  town 
authorites.  A  proposition  had  been  made  to 
Old  Toombs  for  a  right-of-way;  they  argued 
with  him  that  it  was  a  good  thing  for  the 
whole  country,  that  it  would  enhance  the 
values  of  his  own  upper  lands,  and  that 
they  would  pay  him  far  more  for  a  right-of- 
way  than  the  land  was  actually  worth,  but 
he  had  spurned  them  —  I  can  imagine  with 
what  vehemence. 

"Let  'em  drive  round,"  he  said.  "Didn't 
they  know  what  they'd  hev  to  do  when  they 
settled  up  there?  What  a  passel  o'  curs! 


216         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

They  can  keep  off  o'  my  land,  or  I'll  have 
the  law  on  'em." 

And  thus  the  matter  came  to  the  courts 
with  the  town  attempting  to  condemn  the 
land  for  a  road  through  Old  Toombs's  farm. 

"What  can  we  do?"  asked  the  Scotch 
Preacher,  who  was  deeply  distressed  by 
the  bitterness  of  feeling  displayed.  "There 
is  no  getting  to  the  man.  He  will  listen 
to  no  one." 

At  one  time  I  thought  of  going  over  and 
talking  with  Old  Toombs  myself,  for  it 
seemed  that  I  had  been  able  to  get  nearer 
to  him  than  any  one  had  in  a  long  time. 
But  I  dreaded  it.  I  kept  dallying  —  for 
what,  indeed,  could  I  have  said  to  him? 
If  he  had  been  suspicious  of  me  before,  how 
much  more  hostile  he  might  be  when  I  ex- 
pressed an  interest  in  his  difficulties.  As  to 
reaching  the  Swan  Hill  settlers,  they  were  now 
aroused  to  an  implacable  state  of  bitterness; 
and  they  had  the  people  of  the  whole  com- 
munity with  them,  for  no  one  liked  Old 
Toombs. 

Thus  while  I  hesitated  time  passed  and 
my  next  meeting  with  Old  Toombs,  instead 
of  being  premediated,  came  about  quite 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          217 

unexpectedly.  I  was  walking  in  the  town 
road  late  one  afternoon  when  I  heard  a  wagon 
rattling  behind  me,  and  then,  quite  suddenly,  a 
shouted,  "Whoa!" 

Looking  around,  I  saw  Old  Toombs,  his 
great  solid  figure  mounted  high  on  the 
wagon  seat,  the  reins  held  fast  in  the  fingers 
of  one  hand.  I  was  struck  by  the  strange 
expression  in  his  face  —  a  sort  of  grim  ex- 
altation. As  I  stepped  aside  he  burst  out 
in  a  loud,  shrill,  cackling  laugh: 

"He-he-he  —  he-he-he " 

I  was  too  astonished  to  speak  at  once. 
Ordinarily  when  I  meet  any  one  in  the  town 
road  it  is  in  my  heart  to  cry  out  to  him, 
"Good  morning,  friend,"  or,  "How  are  you, 
brother?"  but  I  had  no  such  prompting  that 
day. 

"Git  in,  Grayson,"  he  said;  "git  in,  git 
in." 

I  climbed  up  beside  him,  and  he  slapped 
me  on  the  knee  with  another  burst  of  shrill 
laughter. 

"They  thought  they  had  the  old  man,"  he 
said,  starting  up  his  horses.  "They  thought 
there  weren't  no  law  left  in  Israel.  I  showed 


2i 8          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

I  cannot  convey  the  bitter  triumphancy  of 
his  voice. 

"You  mean  the  road  case?"  I  asked. 

"Road  case!"  he  exploded,  "they  wan't 
no  road  case;  they  didn't  have  no  road  case. 
I  beat  'em.  I  says  to  'em,  What  right 
hev  any  o'  you  on  my  property?  Go  round 
with  you,'  I  says.  Oh,  I  beat  'em.  If  they'd 
had  their  way,  they'd  'a'  cut  through  my 
hedge  —  the  hounds  1" 

When  he  set  me  down  at  my  door  I  had 
said  hardly  a  word.  There  seemed  nothing 
that  could  be  said.  I  remember  I  stood  for 
some  time  watching  the  old  man  as  he  rode 
away,  his  wagon  jolting  in  the  country  road, 
his  stout  figure  perched  firmly  in  the  seat.  I 
went  in  with  a  sense  of  heaviness  at  the  heart. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "there  are  some  things 
in  this  world  beyond  human  remedy." 

Two  evenings  later  I  was  surprised  to  see 
the  Scotch  Preacher  drive  up  to  my  gate  and 
hastily  tie  his  horse. 

"David,"  said  he,  "there's  bad  business 
afoot.  A  lot  of  the  young  fellows  in  Swan  Hill 
are  planning  a  raid  on  Old  Toombs's  hedge. 
They  are  coming  down  to-night." 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          219 

I  got  my  hat  and  jumped  in  with  him. 
We  drove  up  the  hilly  road  and  out  around 
Old  Toombs's  farm  and  thus  came,  near 
sundown,  to  the  settlement.  I  had  no  con- 
ception of  the  bitterness  that  the  lawsuit 
had  engendered. 

"Where  once  you  start  men  hating  one 
another,"  said  the  Scotch  Preacher,  "there's 
utterly  no  end  of  it." 

I  have  seen  our  Scotch  Preacher  in  many 
difficult  places,  but  never  have  I  seen  him  rise 
to  greater  heights  than  he  did  that  night. 
It  is  not  in  his  preaching  that  Doctor  Mc- 
Alway  excels,  but  what  a  power  he  is  among 
men!  He  was  like  some  stern  old  giant, 
standing  there  and  holding  up  the  portals 
of  civilization.  I  saw  men  melt  under  his 
words  like  wax;  I  saw  wild  young  fellows 
subdued  into  quietude;  I  saw  unwise  old  men 
set  to  thinking. 

"Man,  man,"  he'd  say,  lapsing  in  his  ear- 
nestness into  the  broad  Scotch  accent  of 
his  youth,  "you  canna'  mean  plunder,  and 
destruction,  and  riot!  You  canna!  Not  in 
this  neighbourhood!" 

"What  about  Old  Toombs?"  shouted  one 
of  the  boys. 


220         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

I  never  shall  forget  how  Doctor  McAlway 
drew  himself  up,  nor  the  majesty  that  looked 
from  his  eye. 

"Old  Toombs!"  he  said  in  a  voice  that 
thrilled  one  to  the  bone,  "Old  Toombs! 
Have  you  no  faith,  that  you  stand  in  the 
place  of  Almighty  God  and  measure  pun- 
ishments?" 

Before  we  left  it  was  past  midnight  and  we 
drove  home,  almost  silent,  in  the  darkness. 

"Doctor  McAlway,"  I  said,  "if  Old  Toombs 
could  know  the  history  of  this  night  it  might 
change  his  point  of  view." 

"I  doot  it,"  said  the  Scotch  Preacher. 
"I  doot  it." 

The  night  passed  serenely;  the  morning 
saw  Old  Toombs's  hedge  standing  as  gor- 
geous as  ever.  The  community  had  again 
stepped  aside  and  let  Old  Toombs  have  his 
way:  they  had  let  him  alone,  with  all  his 
great  barns,  his  wide  acres  and  his  wonderful 
hedge.  He  probably  never  even  knew  what 
had  threatened  him  that  night,  nor  how  the 
forces  of  religion,  of  social  order,  of  neigh- 
bourliness  in  the  community  which  he  despised 
had,  after  all,  held  him  safe.  There  is  a 
supreme  faith  among  common  people  —  it  is, 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          221 

indeed,  the  very  taproot  of  democracy  —  that 
although  the  unfriendly  one  may  persist 
long  in  his  power  and  arrogance,  there  is  a 
moving  Force  which  commands  events. 

I  suppose  if  I  were  writing  a  mere  story  I 
should  tell  how  Old  Toombs  was  miraculously 
softened  at  the  age  of  sixty-eight  years,  and 
came  into  new  relationships  with  his  neigh- 
bours, or  else  I  should  relate  how  the  mills  of 
God,  grinding  slowly,  had  crushed  the  recalci- 
trant human  atom  into  dust. 

Either  of  these  results  conceivably  might 
have  happened  —  all  things  are  possible  — 
and  being  ingeniously  related  would  somehow 
have  answered  a  need  in  the  human  soul 
that  the  logic  of  events  be  constantly  and 
conclusively  demonstrated  in  the  lives  of 
individual  men  and  women. 

But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  neither  of  these 
things  did  happen  in  this  quiet  community 
of  ours.  There  exists,  assuredly,  a  logic 
of  events,  oh,  a  terrible,  irresistible  logic  of 
events,  but  it  is  careless  of  the  span  of  any 
one  man's  life.  We  would  like  to  have  each 
man  enjoy  the  sweets  of  his  own  virtues 
and  suffer  the  lash  of  his  own  misdeeds  — 
but  it  rarely  so  happens  in  life.  No,  it  is 


222          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

the  community  which  lives  or  dies,  is  regener- 
ated or  marred  by  the  deeds  of  men. 

So  Old  Toombs  continued  to  live.  So 
he  continued  to  buy  more  land,  raise  more 
cattle,  collect  more  interest,  and  the  won- 
derful hedge  continued  to  flaunt  its  marvels 
still  more  notably  upon  the  country  road. 
To  what  end  ?  Who  knows  ?  Who  knows  ? 

I  saw  him  afterward  from  time  to  time, 
tried  to  maintain  some  sort  of  friendly  rela- 
tions with  him;  but  it  seemed  as  the  years 
passed  that  he  grew  ever  lonelier  and  more 
bitter,  and  not  only  more  friendless,  but 
seemingly  more  incapable  of  friendliness. 
In  times  past  I  have  seen  what  men  call 
tragedies  —  I  saw  once  a  perfect  young  man 
die  in  his  strength  —  but  it  seems  to  me  I 
never  knew  anything  more  tragic  than  the 
life  and  death  of  Old  Toombs.  If  it  can- 
not be  said  of  a  man  when  he  dies  that  either 
his  nation,  his  state,  his  neighbourhood,  his 
family,  or  at  least  his  wife  or  child,  is  better 
for  his  having  lived,  what  can  be  said  for  him? 

Old  Toombs  is  dead.  Like  Jehoram,  King 
of  Judah,  of  whom  it  is  terribly  said  in  the 
Book  of  Chronicles,  "he  departed  without 
being  desired." 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 


223 


Of  this  story  of  Nathan  Toombs  we  talked 
much  and  long  there  in  the  Ransome  home. 
I  was  with  them,  as  I  said,  about  two  days 
—  kept  inside  most  of  the  time  by  a  driving 
spring  rain  which  filled  the  valley  with  a 
pale  gray  mist  and  turned  all  the  country 
roads  into  running  streams.  One  morning, 
the  weather  having  cleared,  I  swung  my  bag 
to  my  shoulder,  and  with  much  warmth  of 
parting  I  set  my  face  again  to  the  free  road 
and  the  open  country. 


THE   MAN  POSSESSED 


..-^M^ 

"  "1"' 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  MAN  POSSESSED 

I  SUPPOSE  I  was  predestined  (and  like- 
wise foreordained)  to  reach  the  city  sooner 
or  later.  My  fate  in  that  respect  was  settled 
for  me  when  I  placed  my  trust  in  the  vagrant 
road.  I  thought  for  a  time  that  I  was 
more  than  a  match  for  the  Road,  but  I  soon 
learned  that  the  Road  was  more  than  a 
match  for  me.  Sly?  There's  no  name  for 
it.  Alluring,  lovable,  mysterious  —  as  the 


228         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

heart  of  a  woman.  Many  a  time  I've  fol- 
lowed the  Road  where  it  led  through  innocent 
meadows  or  climbed  leisurely  hill  slopes  only 
to  find  that  it  had  crept  around  slyly  and 
led  me  before  I  knew  it  into  .the  back  door 
of  some  busy  town. 

Mostly  in  this  country  the  towns  squat 
low  in  the  valleys,  they  lie  in  wait  by  the 
rivers,  and  often  I  scarcely  know  of  their 
presence  until  I  am  so  close  upon  them 
that  I  can  smell  the  breath  of  their  heated 
nostrils  and  hear  their  low  growlings  and 
grumblings. 

My  fear  of  these  lesser  towns  has  never  been 
profound.  I  have  even  been  bold  enough, 
when  I  came  across  one  of  them,  to  hasten 
straight  through  as  though  assured  that  Cer- 
berus was  securely  chained;  but  I  found,  after 
a  time,  what  I  might  indeed  have  guessed, 
that  the  Road  also  led  irresistibly  to  the  lair 
of  the  Old  Monster  himself,  the  He-one  of  the 
species,  where  he  lies  upon  the  plain,  lolling 
under  his  soiled  gray  blanket  of  smoke. 

It  is  wonderful  to  be  safe  at  home  again, 
to  watch  the  tender,  reddish  brown  shoots  of 
the  Virginia  creeper  reaching  in  at  my  study 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          229 

window,  to  see  the  green  of  my  own  quiet 
fields,  to  hear  the  peaceful  clucking  of  the 
hens  in  the  sunny  dooryard  —  and  Harriet 
humming  at  her  work  in  the  kitchen. 

When  I  left  the  Ransomes  that  fine  spring 
morning,  I  had  not  the  slightest  presenti- 
ment of  what  the  world  held  in  store  for  me. 
After  being  a  prisoner  of  the  weather  for 
so  long,  I  took  to  the  Road  with  fresh  joy. 
All  the  fields  were  of  a  misty  greenness  and 
there  were  pools  still  shining  in  the  road, 
but  the  air  was  deliciously  clear,  clean,  and 
soft.  I  came  through  the  hill  country  for 
three  or  four  miles,  even  running  down  some 
of  the  steeper  places  for  the  very  joy  the 
motion  gave  me,  the  feel  of  the  air  on  my  face. 

Thus  I  came  finally  to  the  Great  Road, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  looking  first  this 
way,  then  that. 

"Where  now?"  I  asked  aloud. 

With  an  amusing  sense  of  the  possibil- 
ities that  lay  open  before  me,  I  closed  my 
eyes,  turned  slowly  around  several  times  and 
then  stopped.  When  I  opened  my  eyes  I 
was  facing  nearly  southward:  and  that  way 
I  set  out,  not  knowing  in  the  least  what 


230         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

Fortune  had  presided  at  that  turning.  If  I 
had  gone  the  other  way 

I  walked  vigorously  for  two  or  three 
hours,  meeting  or  passing  many  interesting 
people  upon  the  busy  road.  Automobiles 
there  were  in  plenty,  and  loaded  wagons,  and 
jolly  families  off  for  town,  and  a  herdsman 
driving  sheep,  and  small  boys  on  their  way  to 
school  with  their  dinner  pails,  and  a  gypsy 
wagon  with  lean,  led  horses  following  behind, 
and  even  a  Jewish  peddler  with  a  crinkly 
black  beard,  whom  I  was  on  the  very  point 
of  stopping. 

"I  should  like  sometime  to  know  a  Jew," 
I  said  to  myself. 

As  I  travelled,  feeling  like  one  who  pos- 
sesses hidden  riches,  I  came  quite  without 
warning  upon  the  beginning  of  my  great 
adventure.  I  had  been  looking  for  a  certain 
thing  all  the  morning,  first  on  one  side  of 
the  road,  then  the  other,  and  finally  I  was 
rewarded.  There  it  was,  nailed  high  upon  a 
tree,  the  curious,  familiar  sign: 


REST 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          231 

I  stopped  instantly.  It  seemed  like  an  old 
friend. 

"Well,"  said  I.  "I'm  not  at  all  tired, 
but  I  want  to  be  agreeable." 

With  that  I  sat  down  on  a  convenient 
stone,  took  off  my  hat,  wiped  my  fore- 
head, and  looked  about  me  with  satisfac- 
tion, for  it  was  a  pleasant  country. 

I  had  not  been  sitting  there  above  two 
minutes  when  my  eyes  fell  upon  one  of 
the  oddest  specimens  of  humanity  (I  thought 
then)  that  ever  I  saw.  He  had  been  standing 
near  the  roadside,  just  under  the  tree  upon 
which  I  had  seen  the  sign,  "  Rest."  My  heart 
dotted  and  carried  one. 

"The  sign  man  himself!"  I  exclaimed. 

I  arose  instantly  and  walked  down  the 
road  toward  him. 

"A  man  has  only  to  stop  anywhere  here," 
I  said  exultantly,  "and  things  happen." 

The  stranger's  appearance  was  indeed  ex- 
traordinary. He  seemed  at  first  glimpse 
to  be  about  twice  as  large  around  the  hips 
as  he  was  at  the  shoulders,  but  this  I  soon 
discovered  to  be  due  to  no  natural  avoir- 
dupois but  to  the  prodigious  number  of 
soiled  newspapers  and  magazines  with  which 


232          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

the  low-hanging  pockets  of  his  overcoat 
were  stuffed.  For  he  was  still  wearing  an 
old  shabby  overcoat  —  though  the  weather 
was  warm  and  bright  —  and  on  his  head  was 
an  odd  and  outlandish  hat.  It  was  of  fur, 
flat  at  the  top,  flat  as  a  pie  tin,  with  the  moth- 
eaten  earlaps  turned  up  at  the  sides  and 
looking  exactly  like  small  furry  ears.  These, 
with  the  round  steel  spectacles  which  he 
wore  —  the  only  distinctive  feature  of  his 
countenance  —  gave  him  an  indescribably 
droll  appearance. 

"A  fox!"  I  thought. 

Then  I  looked  at  him  more  closely. 

"No,"  said  I,  "an  owl,  an  owl!" 

The  stranger  stepped  out  into  the  road 
and  evidently  awaited  my  approach.  My 
first  vivid  impression  of  his  face  —  I  remem- 
ber it  afterward  shining  with  a  strange 
inward  illumination  —  was  not  favourable. 
It  was  a  deep-lined,  scarred,  worn-looking 
face,  insignificant  if  not  indeed  ugly  in 
its  features,  and  yet,  even  at  the  first  glance, 
revealing  something  inexplainable  —  incal- 
culable   

"Good  day,  friend,"  I  said  heartily. 

Without  replying  to  my  greeting,  he  asked : 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          233 

"Is  this  the  road  to  Kilburn?" — with  a 
faint  flavour  of  foreignness  in  his  words. 

"I  think  it  is,"  I  replied,  and  I  noticed 
as  he  lifted  his  hand  to  thank  me  that  one 
finger  was  missing  and  that  the  hand  itself 
was  cruelly  twisted  and  scarred. 

The  stranger  instantly  set  off  up  the  Road 
without  giving  me  much  more  attention 
than  he  would  have  given  any  other  sign- 
post. I  stood  a  moment  looking  after  him 
—  the  wings  of  his  overcoat  beating  about 
his  legs  and  the  small  furry  ears  on  his  cap 
wagging  gently. 

"There,"  said  I  aloud,  "is  a  man  who  is 
actually  going  somewhere." 

So  many  men  in  this  world  are  going 
nowhere  in  particular  that  when  one  comes 
along  —  even  though  he  be  amusing  and  in- 
significant—  who  is  really  (and  passionately) 
going  somewhere,  what  a  stir  he  commun- 
icates to  a  dull  world!  We  catch  sparks  of 
electricity  from  the  very  friction  of  his  passage. 

It  was  so  with  this  odd  stranger.  Though 
at  one  moment  I  could  not  help  smiling  at 
him,  at  the  next  I  was  following  him. 

"It  may  be,"  said  I  to  myself,  "that 
this  is  really  the  sign  man!" 


234         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

I  felt  like  Captain  Kidd  under  full  sail  to 
capture  a  treasure  ship;  and  as  I  approached, 
I  was  much  agitated  as  to  the  best  method 
of  grappling  and  boarding.  I  finally  de- 
cided, being  a  lover  of  bold  methods,  to  let 
go  my  largest  gun  first  —  for  moral  effect. 

"So,"  said  I,  as  I  ran  alongside,  "you 
are  the  man  who  puts  up  the  signs." 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  me. 

"What  signs?" 

"Why  the  sign  'Rest'  along  this  road." 

He  paused  for  some  seconds  with  a  per- 
plexed expression  on  his  face. 

"Then  you  are  not  the  sign  man,"  I 
said. 

"No,"  he  replied,     "I  ain't  any  sign  man." 

I  was  not  a  little  disappointed,  but  having 
made  my  attack,  I  determined  to  see  if 
there  was  any  treasure  aboard  —  which,  I 
suppose,  should  be  the  procedure  of  any  well- 
regulated  pirate. 

"I'm  going  this  way  myself,"  I  said, 
"and  if  you  have  no  objections " 

He  stood  looking  at  me  curiously,  indeed 
suspiciously,  through  his  round  spectacles. 

"Have  you  got  the  passport?"  he  asked 
finally. 


So  you,  are  the  man  who  puts  up  the  signs ' " 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD         235 

"The  passport!"  I  exclaimed,  mystified  in 
my  turn. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "the  passport.  Let  me 
see  your  hand." 

When  I  held  out  my  hand  he  looked  at 
it  closely  for  a  moment,  and  then  took  it 
with  a  quick  warm  pressure  in  one  of  his, 
and  gave  it  a  little  shake,  in  a  way  not  quite 
American. 

"You  are  one  of  us,"  said  he,  "you  work." 

I  thought  at  first  that  it  was  a  bit  of 
pleasantry,  and  I  was  about  to  return  it 
in  kind  when  I  saw  plainly  in  his  face  a 
look  of  solemn  intent. 

"So,"  he  said,  "we  shall  travel  like  com- 
rades." 

He  thrust  his  scarred  hand  through  my  arm, 
and  we  walked  up  the  road  side  by  side,  his 
bulging  pockets  beating  first  against  his  legs 
and  then  against  mine,  quite  impartially. 

"I  think,"  said  the  stranger,  "that  we 
shall  be  arrested  at  Kilburn." 

"We  shall!"  I  exclaimed  with  something, 
I  admit,  of  a  shock. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "but  it  is  all  in  the  day's 
work." 

"How  is  that?" 


236         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

He  stopped  in  the  road  and  faced  me. 
Throwing  back  his  overcoat  he  pointed  to 
a  small  red  button  on  his  coat  lapel. 

"They  don't  want  me  in  Kilburn,"  said 
he,  "the  mill  men  are  strikin'  there,  and  the 
bosses  have  got  armed  men  on  every  corner. 
Oh,  the  capitalists  are  watchin'  for  me,  all 
right." 

I  cannot  convey  the  strange  excitement 
I  felt.  It  seemed  as  though  these  words 
suddenly  opened  a  whole  new  world  around 
me  —  a  world  I  had  heard  about  for  years, 
but  never  entered.  And  the  tone  in  which 
he  had  used  the  word  "capitalist!"  I  had 
almost  to  glance  around  to  make  sure  that 
there  were  no  ravening  capitalists  hiding  be- 
hind the  trees. 

"So  you  are  a  Socialist,"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "I'm  one  of  those 
dangerous  persons." 

First  and  last  I  have  read  much  of  Socialism, 
and  thought  about  it,  too,  from  the  quiet 
angle  of  my  farm  among  the  hills,  but  this 
was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  had  a  live  So- 
cialist on  my  arm.  I  could  not  have  been 
more  surprised  if  the  stranger  had  said,  "Yes, 
I  am  Theodore  Roosevelt." 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          237 

One  of  the  discoveries  we  keep  making 
all  our  life  long  (provided  we  remain  humble) 
is  the  humorous  discovery  of  the  ordinari- 
ness of  the  extraordinary.  Here  was  this 
disrupter  of  society,  this  man  of  the  red  flag  — 
here  he  was  with  his  mild  spectacled  eyes  and 
his  furry  ears  wagging  as  he  walked.  It  was 
unbelievable!  —  and  the  sun  shining  on  him 
quite  as  impartially  as  it  shone  on  me. 

Coming  at  last  to  a  pleasant  bit  of  wood- 
land, where  a  stream  ran  under  the  roadway, 
I  said: 

"Stranger,  let's  sit  down  and  have  a 
bite  of  luncheon." 

He  began  to  expostulate,  said  he  was 
expected  in  Kilburn. 

"Oh,  I've  plenty  for  two,"  I  said,  "and 
I  can  say,  at  least,  that  I  am  a  firm  believer 
in  cooperation." 

Without  more  urging  he  followed  me  into 
the  woods,  where  we  sat  down  comfortably 
under  a  tree. 

Now,  when  I  take  a  fine  thick  sandwich 
out  of  my  bag,  I  always  feel  like  making  it 
a  polite  bow,  and  before  I  bite  into  a  big 
brown  doughnut,  I  am  tempted  to  say, 
"By  your  leave,  madam,"  and  as  for  MINCE 


238          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

PIE  —  Beau  Brummel  himself  could  not  outdo 
me  in  respectful  consideration.  .  But  Bill 
Hahn  neither  saw,  nor  smelled,  nor,  I  think, 
tasted  Mrs.  Ransome's  cookery.  As  soon 
as  we  sat  down  he  began  talking.  From  time 
to  time  he  would  reach  out  for  another 
sandwich  or  doughnut  or  pickle  (without 
knowing  in  the  least  which  he  was  getting), 
and  when  that  was  gone  some  reflex  impulse 
caused  him  to  reach  out  for  some  more. 
When  the  last  crumb  of  our  luncheon  had 
disappeared  Bill  Hahn  still  reached  out. 
His  hand  groped  absently  about,  and  coming 
in  contact  with  no  more  doughnuts  or  pickles 
he  withdrew  it  —  and  did  not  know,  I  think, 
that  the  meal  was  finished.  (Confidentially, 
I  have  speculated  on  what  might  have  hap- 
pened if  the  supply  had  been  unlimited!) 

But  that  was  Bill  Hahn.  Once  started 
on  his  talk,  he  never  thought  of  food  or 
clothing  or  shelter;  but  his  eyes  glowed, 
his  face  lighted  up  with  a  strange  efful- 
gence, and  he  quite  lost  himself  upon  the 
tide  of  his  own  oratory.  I  saw  him  after- 
ward by  a  flare-light  at  the  centre  of  a 
great  crowd  of  men  and  women  —  but  that 
is  getting  ahead  of  my  story. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          239 

His  talk  bristled  with  such  words  as 
"capitalism,"  "proletariat,"  "class-conscious- 
ness" —  and  he  spoke  with  fluency  of  "eco- 
nomic determinism"  and  "syndicalism."  It 
was  quite  wonderful!  And  from  time  to 
time,  he  would  bring  in  a  smashing  quota- 
tion from  Aristotle,  Napoleon,  Karl  Marx,  or 
Eugene  V.  Debs,  giving  them  all  equal  values, 
and  he  cited  statistics!  —  oh,  marvellous  sta- 
tistics, that  never  were  on  sea  or  land. 

Once  he  was  so  swept  away  by  his  own 
eloquence  that  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and, 
raising  one  hand  high  above  his  head  (quite 
unconscious  that  he  was  holding  up  a  dill 
pickle),  he  worked  through  one  of  his  most 
thrilling  periods. 

Yes,  I  laughed,  and  yet  there  was  so 
brave  a  simplicity  about  this  odd,  absurd 
little  man  that  what  I  laughed  at  was  only 
his  outward  appearance  (and  that  he  himself 
had  no  care  for),  and  all  the  time  I  felt  a 
growing  respect  and  admiration  for  him. 
He  was  not  only  sincere,  but  he  was  genuinely 
simple — a  much  higher  virtue,  as  Fenelon  says. 
For  while  sincere  people  do  not  aim  at  ap- 
pearing anything  but  what  they  are,  they 
are  always  in  fear  of  passing  for  something 


240         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

they  are  not.  They  are  forever  thinking 
about  themselves,  weighing  all  their  words 
and  thoughts  and  dwelling  upon  what  they 
have  done,  in  the  fear  of  having  done  too 
much  or  too  little,  whereas  simplicity,  as 
Fenelon  says,  is  an  uprightness  of  soul 
which  has  ceased  wholly  to  dwell  upon 
itself  or  its  actions.  Thus  there  are  plenty 
of  sincere  folk  in  the  world  but  few  who  are 
simple. 

Well,  the  longer  he  talked,  the  less  in- 
terested I  was  in  what  he  said  and  the  more 
fascinated  I  became  in  what  he  was.  I  felt 
a  wistful  interest  in  him:  and  I  wanted  to 
know  what  way  he  took  to  purge  himself  of 
himself.  I  think  if  I  had  been  in  that  group, 
nineteen  hundred  years  ago,  which  surrounded 
the  beggar  who  was  born  blind,  but  whose 
anointed  eyes  now  looked  out  upon  the 
glories  of  the  world,  I  should  have  been 
among  the  questioners : 

"What  did  he  to  thee?  How  opened  he 
thine  eyes?" 

I  tried  ineffectually  several  times  to  break 
the  swift  current  of  his  oratory  and  finally 
succeeded  (when  he  paused  a  moment  to 
finish  off  a  bit  of  pie  crust). 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          241 

"You  must  have  seen  some  hard  ex- 
periences in  your  life,"  I  said. 

"That  I  have,"  responded  Bill  Hahn, 
"the  capitalistic  system  — 

"Did  you  ever  work  in  the  mills  your- 
self?" I  interrupted  hastily. 

"Boy    and    man,"    said    Bill    Hahn,     "I 
worked  in  that  hell  for  thirty-two  years  — 
The    class-conscious    proletariat    have    only 
to  exert  themselves " 

"And  your  wife,  did  she  work  too  — 
and  your  sons  and  daughters?" 

A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  his  face. 

"My  daughter?"  he  said.  "They  killed 
her  in  the  mills." 

It  was  appalling  —  the  dead  level  of  the 
tone  in  which  he  uttered  those  words  —  the 
monotone  of  an  emotion  long  ago  burned  out, 
and  yet  leaving  frightful  scars. 

"My  friend!"  I  exclaimed,  and  I  could 
not  help  laying  my  hand  on  his  arm. 

I  had  the  feeling  I  often  have  with  troubled 
children — an  indescribable  pity  that  they  have 
had  to  pass  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow, 
and  I  not  there  to  take  them  by  the  hand. 

"And  was  this  —  your  daughter  —  what 
brought  you  to  your  present  belief?" 


242          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"No,"  said  he,  "oh,  no.  I  was  a  Socialist, 
as  you  might  say,  from  youth  up.  That  is, 
I  called  myself  a  Socialist,  but,  comrade,  Tve 
learned  this  here  truth:  that  it  ain't  of  so 
much  importance  that  you  possess  a  belief, 
as  that  the  belief  possess  you.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"I  think,"  said  I,  "that  I  understand." 

Well,  he  told  me  his  story,  mostly  in 
a  curious,  dull,  detached  way  —  as  though 
he  were  speaking  of  some  third  person 
in  whom  he  felt  only  a  brotherly  interest, 
but  from  time  to  time  some  incident  or 
observation  would  flame  up  out  of  the  nar- 
rative, like  the  opening  of  the  door  of  a 
molten  pit  —  so  that  the  glare  hurt  one!  — 
and  then  the  story  would  die  back  again  into 
quiet  narrative. 

Like  most  working  people  he  had  never 
lived  in  the  twentieth  century  at  all.  He  was 
still  in  the  feudal  age,  and  his  whole  life  had 
been  a  blind  and  ceaseless  struggle  for  the 
bare  necessaries  of  life,  broken  from  time 
to  time  by  fierce  irregular  wars  called  strikes. 
He  had  never  known  anything  of  a  real  self- 
governing  commonwealth,  and  such  progress 
as  he  and  his  kind  had  made  was  never  the 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          243 

result  of  their  citizenship,  of  their  powers  as 
voters,  but  grew  out  of  the  explosive  and 
ragged  upheavals  of  their  own  half-organized 
societies  and  unions. 

It  was  against  the  "black  people"  he  said 
that  he  was  first  on  strike  back  in  the  early 
nineties.  He  told  me  all  about  it,  how  he  had 
been  working  in  the  mills  pretty  comfortably 
—  he  was  young  and  strong  then,  with  a  fine 
growing  family  and  a  small  home  of  his  own. 

"It  was  as  pretty  a  place  as  you  would 
want  to  see,"  he  said;  "we  grew  cabbages 
and  onions  and  turnips  —  everything  grew 
fine!  —  in  the  garden  behind  the  house." 

And  then  the  "black  people"  began  to  come 
in,  little  by  little  at  first,  and  then  by  the 
carload.  By  the  "black  people"  he  meant 
the  people  from  Southern  Europe,  he  called 
them  "hordes"  —  "hordes  and  hordes  of 
'em"  —  Italians  mostly,  and  they  began 
getting  into  the  mills  and  underbidding  for 
the  jobs,  so  that  wages  slowly  went  down  and 
at  the  same  time  the  machines  were  speeded 
up.  It  seems  that  many  of  these  "black  peo- 
ple" were  single  men  or  vigorous  young  mar- 
ried people  with  only  themselves  to  support, 
wiiile  the  old  American  workers  were  men 


244          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

with  families  and  little  homes  to  pay  for, 
and  plenty  of  old  grandfathers  and  grand- 
mothers, to  say  nothing  of  babies,  depending 
upon  them. 

"There  wasn't  a  living  for  a  decent  family 
left,"  he  said. 

So  they  struck  —  and  he  told  me  in  his 
dull  monotone  of  the  long  bitterness  of  that 
strike,  the  empty  cupboards,  the  approach 
of  winter  with  no  coal  for  the  stoves  and  no 
warm  clothing  for  the  children.  He  told 
me  that  many  of  the  old  workers  began  to 
leave  the  town  (some  bound  for  the  larger 
cities,  some  for  the  Far  West). 

"But,"  said  he  with  a  sudden  outburst 
of  emotion,  "I  couldn't  leave.  I  had  the 
woman  and  the  children!" 

And  presently  the  strike  collapsed,  and 
the  workers  rushed  helter  skelter  back  to  the 
mills  to  get  their  old  jobs.  "Begging  like 
whipped  dogs,"  he  said  bitterly. 

Many  of  them  found  their  places  taken 
by  the  eager  "black  people,"  and  many  had 
to  go  to  work  at  lower  wages  in  poorer  places 
—  punished  for  the  fight  they  had  made. 

But  he  got  along  somehow,  he  said  — 
'the  woman  was  a  good  manager" -  —  until 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          245 

one  day  he  had  the  misfortune  to  get  his 
hand  caught  in  the  machinery.  It  was  a 
place  which  should  have  been  protected 
with  guards,  but  was  not.  He  was  laid  up 
for  several  weeks,  and  the  company,  claiming 
that  the  accident  was  due  to  his  own  stupidity 
and  carelessness,  refused  even  to  pay  his 
wages  while  he  was  idle.  Well,  the  family 
had  to  live  somehow,  and  the  woman  and 
the  daughter  —  "she  was  a  little  thing,"  he 
said,  "and  frail"  —  the  woman  and  the 
daughter  went  into  the  mill.  But  even  with 
this  new  source  of  income  they  began  to  fall 
behind.  Money  which  should  have  gone 
toward  making  the  last  payments  on  their 
home  (already  long  delayed  by  the  strike) 
had  now  to  go  to  the  doctor  and  the  grocer. 

"We  had  to  live,"  said  Bill  Hahn. 

Again  and  again  he  used  this  same  phrase, 
"We  had  to  live!"  as  a  sort  of  bedrock  ex- 
planation for  all  the  woes  of  life. 

After  a  time,  with  one  finger  gone  and 
a  frightfully  scarred  hand  —  he  held  it  up  for 
me  to  see  —  he  went  back  into  the  mill. 

"But  it  kept  getting  worse  and  worse," 
said  he,  "and  finally  I  couldn't  stand  it  any 
longer." 


246          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

He  and  a  group  of  friends  got  together 
secretly  and  tried  to  organize  a  union,  tried  to 
get  the  workmen  together  to  improve  their 
own  condition;  but  in  some  way  ("they  had 
spies  everywhere,"  he  said)  the  manager 
learned  of  the  attempt  and  one  morning 
when  he  reported  at  the  mill  he  was  handed 
a  slip  asking  him  to  call  for  his  wages,  that 
his  help  was  no  longer  required. 

"I'd  been  with  that  one  company  for 
twenty  years  and  four  months,"  he  said 
bitterly,  "I'd  helped  in  my  small  way  to 
build  it  up,  make  it  a  big  concern  payin'  28 
per  cent,  dividends  every  year;  I'd  given 
part  of  my  right  hand  in  doin'  it  —  and  they 
threw  me  out  like  an  old  shoe." 

He  said  he  would  have  pulled  up  and  gone 
away,  but  he  still  had  the  little  home  and 
the  garden,  and  his  wife  and  daughter  were 
still  at  work,  so  he  hung  on  grimly,  trying  to 
get  some  other  job.  "But  what  good  is  a 
man  for  any  other  sort  of  work,"  he  said, 
"when  he  has  been  trained  to  the  mills  for 
thirty-two  years ! " 

It  was  not  very  long  after  that  when  the 
"great  strike"  began  —  indeed,  it  grew  out 
of  the  organization  which  he  had  tried  to 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          247 

launch  —  and  Bill  Hahn  threw  himself  into 
it  with  all  his  strength.  He  was  one  of  the 
leaders.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  repeat  here 
his  description  of  the  bitter  struggle,  the 
coming  of  the  soldiery,  the  street  riots,  the 
long  lists  of  arrests  ("some,"  said  he,  "got 
into  jail  on  purpose,  so  that  they  could  at 
least  have  enough  to  eat!"),  the  late  meetings 
of  strikers,  the  wild  turmoil  and  excitement. 

Of  all  this  he  told  me,  and  then  he  stopped 
suddenly,  and  after  a  long  pause  he  said  in 
a  low  voice : 

"Comrade,  did  ye  ever  see  your  wife  and 
your  sickly  daughter  and  your  kids  sufferin' 
for  bread  to  eat?" 

He  paused  again  with  a  hard,  dry  sob 
in  his  voice. 

"Did  ye  ever  see  that?" 

"No,"  said  I,  very  humbly,  "I  have 
never  seen  anything  like  that." 

He  turned  on  me  suddenly,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  the  look  on  his  face,  nor  the  blaze 
in  his  eyes: 

"Then  what  can  you  know  about  working- 
men!" 

What  could  I  answer? 

A  moment  passed  and  then  he  said,  as  if  a 


248         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

little  remorseful  at  having  turned  thus  upon 
me: 

"Comrade,  I  tell  you,  the  iron  entered  my 
soul  —  them  days." 

It  seems  that  the  leaders  of  the  strike  were 
mostly  old  employees  like  Bill  Hahn,  and 
the  company  had  conceived  the  idea  that 
if  these  men  could  be  eliminated  the  organi- 
zation would  collapse,  and  the  strikers  be 
forced  back  to  work.  One  day  Bill  Hahn 
found  that  proceedings  had  been  started  to 
turn  him  out  of  his  home,  upon  which  he 
had  not  been  able  to  keep  up  his  payments, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  merchant,  of  whom 
he  had  been  a  respected  customer  for  years, 
refused  to  give  him  any  further  credit. 

"But  we  lived  somehow,"  he  said,  "we 
lived  and  we  fought." 

It  was  then  that  he  began  to  see  clearly 
what  it  all  meant.  He  said  he  made  a 
great  discovery:  that  the  "black  people" 
against  whom  they  had  struck  in  1894 
were  not  to  blame! 

"I  tell  you,"  said  he,  "we  found  when  we 
got  started  that  them  black  people — we  used 
to  call  'em  dagoes  —  were  just  workin'  people 
like  us  —  and  in  hell  with  us.  They  were 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          249 

good  soldiers,  them  Eyetalians  and  Poles  and 
Syrians,  they  fought  with  us  to  the  end." 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  intensely  dramatic 
but  perfectly  simple  way  in  which  he  told 
me  how  he  came,  as  he  said,  "to  see  the  true 
light."  Holding  up  his  maimed  right  hand 
(that  trembled  a  little),  he  pointed  one  finger 
upward. 

"I  seen  the  big  hand  in  the  sky,"  he  said, 
"I  seen  it  as  clear  as  daylight." 

He  said  he  saw  at  last  what  Socialism  meant. 

One  day  he  went  home  from  a  strikers' 
meeting  —  one  of  the  last,  for  the  men  were 
worn  out  with  their  long  struggle.  It  was 
a  bitter  cold  day,  and  he  was  completely 
discouraged.  When  he  reached  his  own  street 
he  saw  a  pile  of  household  goods  on  the  side- 
walk in  front  of  his  home.  He  saw  his  wife 
there  wringing  her  hands  and  crying.  He 
said  he  could  not  take  a  step  further,  but  sat 
down  on  a  neighbour's  porch  and  looked  and 
looked.  "It  was  curious,"  he  said,  "but 
the  only  thing  I  could  see  or  think  about  was 
our  old  family  clock  which  they  had  stuck 
on  top  of  the  pile,  half  tipped  over.  It 
looked  odd  and  I  wanted  to  set  it  up  straight. 
It  was  the  clock  we  bought  when  we  were 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

married,  and  we'd  had  it  about  twenty  years 
on  the  mantel  in  the  livin'-room.  It  was  a 
good  clock,"  he  said. 

He  paused  and  then  smiled  a  little. 

"I  never  have  figured  it  out  why  I  should 
have  been  able  to  think  of  nothing  but  that 
clock,"  he  said,  "but  so  it  was." 

When  he  got  home,  he  found  his  frail 
daughter  just  coming  out  of  the  empty  house, 
"coughing  as  though  she  was  dyin'."  Some- 
thing, he  said,  seemed  to  stop  inside  of  him. 
Those  were  his  words:  "Something  seemed 
to  stop  inside  'o  me." 

He  turned  away  without  saying  a  word, 
walked  back  to  strike  headquarters,  bor- 
rowed a  revolver  from  a  friend,  and  started 
out  along  the  main  road  which  led  into  the 
better  part  of  the  town. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  o'  Robert  Winter?" 
he  asked. 

"No,"  said  I. 

"Well,  Robert  Winter  was  the  biggest 
gun  of  'em  all.  He  owned  the  mills  there, 
and  the  largest  store  and  the  newspaper  — 
he  pretty  nearly  owned  the  town." 

He  told  me  much  more  about  Robert 
Winter  which  betrayed  still  a  curious  sort 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          251 

of  feudal  admiration  for  him,  and  for  his 
great  place  and  power;  but  I  need  not  dwell 
on  it  here.  He  told  me  how  he  climbed 
in  through  a  hemlock  hedge  (for  the  stone 
gateway  was  guarded)  and  walked  through 
the  snow  toward  the  great  house. 

"An*  all  the  time  I  seemed  to  be  seein' 
my  daughter  Margy  right  there  before  my  eyes 
coughing  as  though  she  was  dyin  V 

It  was  just  nightfall  and  all  the  windows 
were  alight.  He  crept  up  to  a  clump  of 
bushes  under  a  window  and  waited  there  a 
moment  while  he  drew  out  and  cocked  his 
revolver.  Then  he  slowly  reached  upward 
until  his  head  cleared  the  sill  and  he  could  look 
into  the  room.  "A  big,  warm  room,"  he 
described  it. 

"Comrade,"  said  he,  "I  had  murder  in 
my  heart  that  night." 

So  he  stood  there  looking  in  with  the 
revolver  ready  cocked  in  his  hand. 

"And  what  do  you  think  I  seen  there?" 
he  asked. 

"I  cannot  guess,"  I  said. 

"Well,"  said  Bill  Hahn,  "I  seen  the  great 
Robert  Winter  that  we  had  been  fighting 
for  five  long  months — and  he  was  down  on 


252         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

his  hands  and  knees  on  the  carpet  —  and 
he  had  his  little  daughter  on  his  back  — 
and  he  was  creepin'  about  with  her  —  an' 
she  was  laughin'." 

Bill  Hahn  paused. 

"I  had  a  bead  on  him,"  he  said  finally,  "but 
I  couldn't  do  it  —  I  just  couldn't  do  it." 

He  came  away  all  weak  and  trembling 
and  cold,  and,  "Comrade,"  he  said,  "I  was 
cryin'  like  a  baby,  and  didn't  know  why." 

The  next  day  the  strike  collapsed  and 
there  was  the  familiar  stampede  for  work  — 
but  Bill  Hahn  did  not  go  back.  He  knew 
it  would  be  useless.  A  week  later  his  frail 
daughter  died  and  was  buried  in  the  pauper's 
field. 

"She  was  as  truly  killed,"  he  said,  "as 
though  some  one  had  fired  a  bullet  at  her 
through  a  window." 

"And  what  did  you  do  after  that?"  I 
asked,  when  he  had  paused  for  a  long  time 
with  his  chin  on  his  breast. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  did  a  lot  of  thinking 
them  days,  and  I  says  to  myself:  'This 
thing  is  wrong,  and  I  will  go  out  and  stop  it  — 
I  will  go  out  and  stop  it.' J: 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  I  looked  at  him 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          253 

curiously  —  his  absurd  flat  fur  hat  with  the 
moth-eaten  ears,  the  old  bulging  overcoat, 
the  round  spectacles,  the  scarred,  insignificant 
face  —  he  seemed  somehow  transformed,  a  per- 
son elevated  above  himself,  the  tool  of  some 
vast  incalculable  force. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  phrase  he  used 
to  describe  his  own  feelings  when  he  had 
reached  this  astonishing  decision  to  go  out 
and  stop  the  wrongs  of  the  world.  He  said 
he  "began  to  feel  all  clean  inside." 

"I  see  it  didn't  matter  what  become  o'  me, 
and  I  began  to  feel  all  clean  inside." 

It  seemed,  he  explained,  as  though  some- 
thing big  and  strong  had  got  hold  of  him, 
and  he  began  to  be  happy. 

"Since  then,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"I've  been  happier  than  I  ever  was  before 
in  all  my  life.  I  ain't  got  any  family,  nor  any 
home  —  rightly  speakin'  —  nor  any  money, 
but,  comrade,  you  see  here  in  front  of  you, 
a  happy  man." 

When  he  had  finished  his  story  we  sat 
quiet  for  some  time. 

"Well,"  said  he,  finally,  "I  must  be  goin'. 
The  committee  will  wonder  what's  become 


254         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

I  followed  him  out  to  the  road.  There 
I  put  my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said: 

"Bill  Hahn,  you  are  a  better  man  than 
I  am." 

He  smiled,  a  beautiful  smile,  and  we  walked 
off  together  down  the  road. 

I  wish  I  had  gone  on  with  him  at  that 
time  into  the  city,  but  somehow  I  could 
not  do  it.  I  stopped  near  the  top  of  the 
hill  where  one  can  see  in  the  distance  that 
smoky  huddle  of  buildings  which  is  known 
as  Kilburn,  and  though  he  urged  me,  I 
turned  aside  and  sat  down  in  the  edge  of  a 
meadow.  There  were  many  things  I  wanted 
to  think  about,  to  get  clear  in  my  mind. 

As  I  sat  looking  out  toward  that  great 
city,  I  saw  three  men  walking  in  the  white 
road.  As  I  watched  them,  I  could  see 
them  coming  quickly,  eagerly.  Presently 
they  threw  up  their  hands  and  evidently 
began  to  shout,  though  I  could  not  hear 
what  they  said.  At  that  moment  I  saw  my 
friend  Bill  Hahn  running  in  the  road,  his 
coat  skirts  flapping  heavily  about  his  legs. 
When  they  met  they  almost  fell  into  one 
another's  arms. 

I  suppose  it  was  so  that  the  early  Chris- 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 


255 


tians,  those  who  hid  in  the  Roman  catacombs, 
were  wont  to  greet  one  another. 

So  I  sat  thinking. 

"A  man,"  I  said  to  myself,  "who  can 
regard  himself  as  a  function,  not  an  end  of 
creation,  has  arrived." 

After  a  time  I  got  up  and  walked  down  the 
hill  —  some  strange  force  carrying  me  on- 
ward —  and  came  thus  to  the  city  of  Kilburn. 


I  AM  CAUGHT  UP  INTO  LIFE 


CHAPTER  X 
I  AM  CAUGHT  UP  INTO  LIFE 

I  CAN  scarcely  convey  in  written  words 
the  whirling  emotions  I  felt  when  I 
entered  the  city  of  Kilburn.  Every  sight, 
every  sound,  recalled  vividly  and  painfully 
the  unhappy  years  I  had  once  spent  in  another 
and  greater  city.  Every  mingled  odour  of  the 
streets  —  and  there  is  nothing  that  will  so 
surely  re-create  (for  me)  the  inner  emotion 
of  a  time  or  place  as  a  remembered  odour  — 
brought  back  to  me  the  incidents  of  that 
immemorial  existence. 

For  a  time,   I  confess  it  frankly  here,   I 
259 


26o         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

felt  afraid.  More  than  once  I  stopped  short 
in  the  street  where  I  was  walking,  and  con- 
sidered turning  about  and  making  again  for 
the  open  country.  Some  there  may  be  who 
will  feel  that  I  am  exaggerating  my  sensations 
and  impressions,  but  they  do  not  know  of  my 
memories  of  a  former  life,  nor  of  how,  many 
years  ago,  I  left  the  city  quite  defeated, 
glad  indeed  that  I  was  escaping,  and  thinking 
(as  I  have  related  elsewhere)  that  I  should 
never  again  set  foot  upon  a  paved  street. 
These  things  went  deep  with  me.  Only 
the  other  day,  when  a  friend  asked  me  how 
old  I  was,  I  responded  instantly  —  our  un- 
premeditated words  are  usually  truest  —  with 
the  date  of  my  arrival  at  this  farm. 

"Then  you  are  only  ten  years  old!"  he  ex- 
claimed with  a  laugh,  thinking  I  was  joking. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  am  counting  only  the 
years  worth  living." 

No;  I  existed,  but  I  never  really  lived 
until  I  was  reborn,  that  wonderful  summer, 
here  among  these  hills. 

I  said  I  felt  afraid  in  the  streets  of  Kil- 
burn,  but  it  was  no  physical  fear.  Who 
could  be  safer  in  a  city  than  the  man  who 
has  not  a  penny  in  his  pockets?  It  was 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          261 

rather  a  strange,  deep,  spiritual  shrinking. 
There  seemed  something  so  irresistible  about 
this  life  of  the  city,  so  utterly  overpowering. 
I  had  a  sense  of  being  smaller  than  I  had 
previously  felt  myself,  that  in  some  way  my 
personality,  all  that  was  strong  or  interesting 
or  original  about  me,  was  being  smudged 
over,  rubbed  out.  In  the  country  I  had 
in  some  measure  come  to  command  life,  but 
here,  it  seemed  to  me,  life  was  commanding 
me  and  crushing  me  down.  It  is  a  difficult 
thing  to  describe:  I  never  felt  just  that  way 
before. 

I  stopped  at  last  on  the  main  street  of 
Kilburn  in  the  very  heart  of  the  town.  I 
stopped  because  it  seemed  necessary  to  me, 
like  a  man  in  a  flood,  to  touch  bottom,  to 
get  hold  upon  something  immovable  and 
stable.  It  was  just  at  that  hour  of  evening 
when  the  stores  and  shops  are  pouring  forth 
their  rivulets  of  humanity  to  join  the  vast 
flood  of  the  streets.  I  stepped  quickly  aside 
into  a  niche  near  the  corner  of  an  immense 
building  of  brick  and  steel  and  glass,  and 
there  I  stood  with  my  back  to  the  wall, 
and  I  watched  the  restless,  whirling,  tor- 
rential tide  of  the  streets.  I  felt  again, 


262          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

as  I  had  not  felt  it  before  in  years,  the  mys- 
terious urge  of  the  city  —  the  sense  of  un- 
ending, overpowering  movement. 

There  was  another  strange,  indeed  un- 
canny, sensation  that  began  to  creep  over 
me  as  I  stood  there.  Though  hundreds 
upon  hundreds  of  men  and  women  were 
passing  me  every  minute,  not  one  of  them 
seemed  to  see  me.  Most  of  them  did  not 
even  look  in  my  direction,  and  those  who 
did  turn  their  eyes  toward  me  seemed  to 
glance  through  me  to  the  building  behind. 
I  wonder  if  this  is  at  all  a  common  experi- 
ence, or  whether  I  was  unduly  sensitive 
that  day,  unduly  wrought  up?  I  began 
to  feel  like  one  clad  in  garments  of  invis- 
ibility. I  could  see,  but  was  not  seen.  I 
could  feel,  but  was  not  felt.  In  the  country 
there  are  few  who  would  not  stop  to  speak 
to  me,  or  at  least  appraise  me  with  their 
eyes;  but  here  I  was  a  wraith,  a  ghost  — 
not  a  palpable  human  being  at  all.  For  a  mo- 
ment I  felt  unutterably  lonely. 

It  is  this  way  with  me.  When  I  have 
reached  the  very  depths  of  any  serious  situa- 
tion or  tragic  emotion,  something  within  me 
seems  at  last  to  stop  —  how  shall  I  describe 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          263 

it?  —  and  I  rebound  suddenly  and  see  the 
world,  as  it  were,  double  —  see  that  my  con- 
dition instead  of  being  serious  or  tragic  is  in 
reality  amusing  —  and  I  usually  came  out 
of  it  with  an  utterly  absurd  or  whimsical 
idea.  It  was  so  upon  this  occasion.  I  think 
it  was  the  image  of  my  robust  self  as  a 
wraith  that  did  it. 

"After  all,"  I  said  aloud  taking  a  firm 
hold  on  the  good  hard  flesh  of  one  of  my 
legs,  "this  is  positively  David  Grayson." 

I  looked  out  again  into  that  tide  of  faces 
—  interesting,  tired,  passive,  smiling,  sad,  but 
above  all,  preoccupied  faces. 

"No  one,"  I  thought,  "seems  to  know 
that  David  Grayson  has  come  to  town.'' 

I  had  the  sudden,  almost  irresistible  notion 
of  climbing  up  a  step  near  me,  holding  up 
one  hand,  and  crying  out: 

"Here  I  am,  my  friends.  I  am  David 
Grayson.  I  am  real  and  solid  and  opaque; 
I  have  plenty  of  red  blood  running  in  my 
veins.  I  assure  you  that  I  am  a  person 
well  worth  knowing." 

I  should  really  have  enjoyed  some  such 
outlandish  enterprise,  and  I  am  not  at  all 
sure  yet  that  it  would  not  have  brought 


264         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

me  adventures  and  made  me  friends  worth 
while.  We  fail  far  more  often  by  under-daring 
than  by  over-daring. 

But  this  imaginary  object  had  the  result, 
at  least,  of  giving  me  a  new  grip  on  things. 
I  began  to  look  out  upon  the  amazing  spec- 
tacle before  me  in  a  different  mood.  It  was 
exactly  like  some  enormous  anthill  into  which 
an  idle  traveller  had  thrust  his  cane.  Every- 
where the  ants  were  running  out  of  their 
tunnels  and  burrows,  many  carrying  burdens 
and  giving  one  strangely  the  impression 
that  while  they  were  intensely  alive  and 
active,  not  more  than  half  of  them  had  any 
clear  idea  of  where  they  were  going.  And 
serious,  deadly  serious,  in  their  haste!  I  felt 
a  strong  inclination  to  stop  a  few  of  them 
and  say: 

"Friends,  cheer  up.  It  isn't  half  as  bad 
as  you  think  it  is.  Cheer  up ! " 

After  a  time  the  severity  of  the  human 
flood  began  to  abate,  and  here  and  there 
at  the  bottom  of  that  gulch  of  a  street, 
which  had  begun  to  fill  with  soft,  bluish- 
gray  shadows,  the  evening  lights  appeared. 
The  air  had  grown  cooler;  in  the  distance 
around  a  corner  I  heard  a  street  organ  break 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          265 

suddenly  and  joyously  into  the  lively  strains 
of  "The  Wearin'  o'  the  Green." 

I  stepped  out  into  the  street  with  quite  a 
new  feeling  of  adventure.  And  as  if  to  testify 
that  I  was  now  a  visible  person  a  sharp-eyed 
newsboy,  discovered  me  —  the  first  human 
being  in  Kilburn  who  had  actually  seen  me 
—  and  came  up  with  a  paper  in  his  hand. 

"Herald,  boss?" 

I  was  interested  in  the  shrewd,  world- 
wise,  humorous  look  in  the  urchin's  eyes. 

"No,"  I  began,  with  the  full  intent  of 
bantering  him  into  some  sort  of  acquaint- 
ance; but  he  evidently  measured  my  pur- 
chasing capacity  quite  accurately,  for  he 
turned  like  a  flash  to  another  customer. 


"You'll  have  to  step  lively,  David  Gray- 
son,"  I  said  to  myself,  "if  you  get  aboard 
in  this  city." 

A  slouchy  negro  with  a  cigarette  in  his 
fingers  glanced  at  me  in  passing  and  then, 
hesitating,  turned  quickly  toward  me. 

"Got  a  match,  boss?" 

I  gave  him  a  match. 

"Thank  you,  boss,"  and  he  passed  on 
down  the  street. 


266         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"I  seem  to  be  'boss'  around  here,"  I  said. 

This  contact,  slight  as  it  was,  gave  me  a 
feeling  of  warmth,  removed  a  little  the  sensa- 
tion of  aloofness  I  had  felt,  and  I  strolled 
slowly  down  the  street,  looking  in  at  the  gay 
windows,  now  ablaze  with  lights,  and  watching 
the  really  wonderful  procession  of  vehicles 
of  all  shapes  and  sizes  that  rattled  by  on  the 
pavement.  Even  at  that  hour  of  the  day  I 
think  there  were  more  of  them  in  one  minute 
than  I  see  in  a  whole  month  at  my  farm. 

It's  a  great  thing  to  wear  shabby  clothes 
and  an  old  hat.  Some  of  the  best  things 
I  have  ever  known,  like  these  experiences 
of  the  streets,  have  resulted  from  coming  up 
to  life  from  underneath;  of  being  taken  for 
less  than  I  am  rather  than  for  more  than 
I  am. 

I  did  not  always  believe  in  this  doctrine. 
For  many  years  —  the  years  before  I  was 
rightly  born  into  this  alluring  world  —  I 
tried  quite  the  opposite  course.  I  was  con- 
stantly attempting  to  come  down  to  life  from 
above.  Instead  of  being  content  to  carry 
through  life  a  sufficiently  wonderful  being 
named  David  Grayson  I  tried  desperately 
to  set  up  and  support  a  sort  of  dummy  crea- 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          267 

ture  which,  so  clad,  so  housed,  so  fed,  should 
appear  to  be  what  I  thought  David  Grayson 
ought  to  appear  in  the  eyes  of  the  world- 
Oh,  I  spent  quite  a  lifetime  trying  to  satisfy 
other  people! 

Once  I  remember  staying  at  home,  in  bed, 
reading  "Huckleberry  Finn,"  while  I  sent 
my  trousers  out  to  be  mended. 

Well,  that  dummy  Grayson  perished  in  a 
cornfield.  His  empty  coat  served  well  for 
a  scarecrow.  A  wisp  of  straw  stuck  out 
through  a  hole  in  his  finest  hat. 

And  I  —  the  man  within  —  I  escaped, 
and  have  been  out  freely  upon  the  great  ad- 
venture of  life. 

If  a  shabby  coat  (and  I  speak  here  also 
symbolically,  not  forgetful  of  spiritual  sig- 
nificances) lets  you  into  the  adventurous 
world  of  those  who  are  poor  it  does  not  on  the 
other  hand  rob  you  of  any  true  friendship 
among  those  who  are  rich  or  mighty.  I  say 
true  friendship,  for  unless  a  man  who  is  rich 
and  mighty  is  able  to  see  through  my  shabby 
coat  (as  I  see  through  his  fine  one),  I  shall 
gain  nothing  by  knowing  him. 

I've  permitted  myself  all  this  digression 
—  left  myself  walking  alone  there  in  the 


268          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

streets  of  Kilburn  while  I  philosophized 
upon  the  ways  and  means  of  life  —  not 
without  design,  for  I  could  have  had  no 
such  experiences  as  I  did  have  in  Kilburn 
if  I  had  worn  a  better  coat  or  carried  upon 
me  the  evidences  of  security  in  life. 

I  think  I  have  already  remarked  upon  the 
extraordinary  enlivenment  of  wits  which 
comes  to  the  man  who  has  been  without  a 
meal  or  so  and  does  not  know  when  or  where 
he  is  again  to  break  his  fast.  Try  it,  friend, 
and  see !  It  was  already  getting  along  in  the 
evening,  and  I  knew  or  supposed  I  knew  no 
one  in  Kilburn  save  only  Bill  Hahn,  Socialist, 
who  was  little  better  off  than  I  was. 

In  this  emergency  my  mind  began  to  work 
swiftly.  A  score  of  fascinating  plans  for  get- 
ting my  supper  and  a  bed  to  sleep  in  flashed 
through  my  mind. 

"Why,"  said  I,  "when  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  I'm  comparatively  rich.  I'll  warrant 
there  are  plenty  of  places  in  Kilburn,  and 
good  ones,  too,  where  I  could  barter  a  chapter 
of  Montaigne  and  a  little  good  conversation 
for  a  first-rate  supper,  and  I've  no  doubt 
that  I  could  whistle  up  a  bed  almost  any- 
where!" 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          269 

I  thought  of  a  little  motto  I  often  repeat 
to  myself: 

To  know  life,  begin  anywhere! 

There  were  several  people  on  the  streets 
of  Kilburn  that  night  who  don't  know  yet 
how  very  near  they  were  to  being  boarded 
by  a  somewhat  shabby  looking  farmer  who 
would  have  offered  them,  let  us  say,  a  notable 
musical  production  called  "Old  Dan  Tucker," 
exquisitely  performed  on  a  tin  whistle,  in  ex- 
change for  a  good  honest  supper. 

There  was  one  man  in  particular  —  a 
fine,  pompous  citizen  who  came  down  the 
street  swinging  his  cane  and  looking  as 
though  the  universe  was  a  sort  of  Christmas 
turkey,  lying  all  brown  and  sizzling  before 
him  ready  to  be  carved  —  a  fine  pompous 
citizen  who  never  realized  how  nearly  Fate 
with  a  battered  volume  of  Montaigne  in  one 
hand  and  a  tin  whistle  in  the  other  —  came 
to  pouncing  upon  him  that  evening!  And 
I  am  firmly  convinced  that  if  I  had  attacked 
him  with  the  Great  Particular  Word  he 
would  have  carved  me  off  a  juicy  slice  of  the 
white  breast  meat. 


270          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"I'm  getting  hungry,"  I  said;  "I  must 
find  Bill  Hahn!" 

I  had  turned  down  a  side  street,  and  see- 
ing there  in  front  of  a  building  a  number 
of  lounging  men  with  two  or  three  cabs 
or  carriages  standing  nearby  in  the  street 
I  walked  up  to  them.  It  was  a  livery 
barn. 

Now  I  like  all  sorts  of  out-of-door  peo- 
ple: I  seem  to  be  related  to  them  through 
horses  and  cattle  and  cold  winds  and  sunshine. 
I  like  them  and  understand  them,  and  they 
seem  to  like  me  and  understand  me.  So  I 
walked  up  to  the  group  of  jolly  drivers  and 
stablemen  intending  to  ask  my  directions. 
The  talking  died  out  and  they  all  turned  to 
look  at  me.  I  suppose  I  was  not  altogether 
a  familiar  type  there  in  the  city  streets. 
My  bag,  especially,  seemed  to  set  me  apart 
as  a  curious  person. 

"Friends,"  I  said,  "I  am  a  farmer 

They  all  broke  out  laughing;  they  seemed 
to  know  it  already!  I  was  just  a  little  taken 
aback,  but  I  laughed,  too,  knowing  that  there 
was  a  way  of  getting  at  them  if  only  I  could 
find  it. 

"It  may  surprise  you,"  I  said,  "but  this 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          271 

is  the  first  time  in  some  dozen  years  that 
I've  been  in  a  big  city  like  this." 

"You  nadn't  'ave  told  us,  partner!"  said 
one  of  them,  evidently  the  wit  of  the  group, 
in  a  rich  Irish  brogue. 

"Well,"  I  responded,  laughing  with  the 
rest  of  them,  "you've  been  living  right 
here  all  the  time,  and  don't  realize  how 
amusing  and  curious  the  city  looks  to  me. 
Why,  I  feel  as  though  I  had  been  away 
sleeping  for  twenty  years,  like  Rip  Van 
Winkle.  When  I  left  the  city  there  was 
scarcely  an  automobile  to  be  seen  anywhere 
—  and  now  look  at  them  snorting  through 
the  streets.  I  counted  twenty-two  passing 
that  corner  up  there  in  five  minutes  by  the 
clock." 

This  was  a  fortunate  remark,  for  I  found 
instantly  that  the  invasion  of  the  automobile 
was  a  matter  of  tremendous  import  to  such 
Knights  of  Bucephalus  as  these. 

At  first  the  wit  interrupted  me  with  amusing 
remarks,  as  wits  will,  but  I  soon  had  him  as 
quiet  as  the  others.  For  I  have  found  the 
things  that  chiefly  interest  people  are  the 
things  they  already  know  about  —  provided 
you  show  them  that  these  common  things 


272         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

are  still  mysterious,  still  miraculous,  as  indeed 
they  are. 

After  a  time  some  one  pushed  me  a  stable 
stool  and  I  sat  down  among  them,  and  we 
had  quite  a  conversation,  which  finally  de- 
veloped into  an  amusing  comparison  (I  wish 
I  had  room  to  repeat  it  here)  between  the  city 
and  the  country.  I  told  them  something 
about  my  farm,  how  much  I  enjoyed  it, 
and  what  a  wonderful  free  life  one  had  in 
the  country.  In  this  I  was  really  taking  an 
unfair  advantage  of  them,  for  I  was  trading 
on  the  fact  that  every  man,  down  deep  in  his 
heart,  has  more  or  less  of  an  instinct  to  get 
back  to  the  soil  —  at  least  all  outdoor  men 
have.  And  when  I  described  the  simplest 
things  about  my  barn,  and  the  cattle  and 
pigs,  and  the  bees  —  and  the  good  things  we 
have  to  eat  —  I  had  every  one  of  them  leaning 
forward  and  hanging  on  my  words. 

Harriet  sometimes  laughs  at  me  for  the 
way  I  celebrate  farm  life.  She  says  all  my 
apples  are  the  size  of  Hubbard  squashes,  my 
eggs  all  double-yolked,  and  my  cornfields  trop- 
ical jungles.  Practical  Harriet!  My  apples 
may  not  all  be  the  size  of  Hubbard  squashes, 
but  they  are  good,  sizable  apples,  and  as 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          273 

for  flavour  —  all  the  spices  of  Arcady ! 

And  I  believe,  I  know,  from  my  own  expe- 
rience that  these  fields  and  hills  are  capable 
of  healing  men's  souls.  And  when  I  see  peo- 
ple wandering  around  a  lonesome  city  like 
Kilburn,  with  never  a  soft  bit  of  soil  to 
put  their  heels  into,  nor  a  green  thing  to  cul- 
tivate, nor  any  corn  or  apples  or  honey  to 
harvest,  I  feel  —  well,  that  they  are  wasting 
their  time. 

(It's  a  fact,  Harriet!) 

Indeed,  I  had  the  most  curious  experi- 
ence with  my  friend  the  wit  —  his  name 
I  soon  learned  was  Healy  —  a  jolly,  round, 
red-nosed,  outdoor  chap  with  fists  that  looked 
like  small-sized  hams,  and  a  rich,  warm 
Irish  voice.  At  first  he  was  inclined  to  use 
me  as  the  ready  butt  of  his  lively  mind, 
but  presently  he  became  so  much  interested 
in  what  I  was  saying  that  he  sat  squarely 
in  front  of  me  with  both  his  jolly  eyes  and 
his  smiling  mouth  wide  open. 

"If  ever  you  pass  my  way,"  I  said  to 
him,  "just  drop  in  and  I'll  give  you  a  din- 
ner of  baked  beans"  —  and  I  smacked — "and 
home  made  bread"  —  and  I  smacked  again 


274         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

—  "and  pumpkin  pie"  —  and  I  smacked  a 
third  time — "that  will  make  your  mouth 
water." 

All  this  smacking  and  the  description  of 
baked  beans  and  pumpkin  pie  had  an  odd 
counter  effect  upon  me;  for  I  suddenly  recalled 
my  own  tragic  state.  So  I  jumped  up  quickly 
and  asked  directions  for  getting  down  to  the 
mill  neighbourhood,  where  I  hoped  to  find 
Bill  Hahn.  My  friend  Healy  instantly  vol- 
unteered the  information. 

"And  now,"  I  said,  "  I  want  to  ask  a  small 
favour  of  you.  I'm  looking  for  a  friend, 
and  I'd  like  to  leave  my  bag  here  for  the  night." 

"Sure,  sure,"  said  the  Irishman  heartily. 
"Put  it  there  in  the  office  —  on  top  o'  the 
desk.  It'll  be  all  right." 

So  I  put  it  in  the  office  and  was  about  to 
say  good-bye,  when  my  friend  said  to  me: 

"Come  in,  partner,  and  have  a  drink 
before  you  go"  —  and  he  pointed  to  a  nearby 
saloon. 

"Thank  you,"  I  answered  heartily,  for 
I  knew  it  was  as  fine  a  bit  of  hospitality  as 
he  could  offer  me,  "thank  you,  but  I  must 
find  my  friend  before  it  gets  too  late." 

"Aw,    come    on    now,"    he    cried,    taking 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          275 

my  arm.  "  Sure  you'll  be  better  off  for  a 
bit  o'  warmth  inside." 

I  had  hard  work  to  get  away  from  them, 
and  I  am  as  sure  as  can  be  that  they  would 
have  found  supper  and  a  bed  for  me  if  they 
had  known  I  needed  either. 

"Come  agin,"  Healy  shouted  after  me, 
"we're  glad  to  see  a  farmer  any  toime." 

My  way  led  me  quickly  out  of  the  well- 
groomed  and  glittering  main  streets  of  the 
town.  I  passed  first  through  several  blocks 
of  quiet  residences,  and  then  came  to  a 
street  near  the  river  which  was  garishly 
lighted,  and  crowded  with  small,  poor  shops 
and  stores,  with  a  saloon  on  nearly  every 
corner.  I  passed  a  huge,  dark,  silent  box 
of  a  mill,  and  I  saw  what  I  never  saw  before 
in  a  city,  armed  men  guarding  the  streets. 

Although  it  was  growing  late  —  it  was 
after  nine  o'clock  —  crowds  of  people  were 
still  parading  the  streets,  and  there  was 
something  intangibly  restless,  something  tense, 
in  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  neighbourhood. 
It  was  very  plain  that  I  had  reached  the  strike 
district.  I  was  about  to  make  some  further 
inquiries  for  the  headquarters  of  the  mill 
men  or  for  Bill  Hahn  personally,  when  I  saw, 


276         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

not  far  ahead  of  me,  a  black  crowd  of  people 
reaching  out  into  the  street.  Drawing  nearer 
I  saw  that  an  open  space  or  block  between 
two  rows  of  houses  was  literally  black  with 
human  beings,  and  in  the  centre  on  a  raised 
platform,  under  a  gasolene  flare,  I  beheld  my 
friend  of  the  road,  Bill  Hahn.  The  overcoat 
and  the  hat  with  the  furry  ears  had  disap- 
peared, and  the  little  man  stood  there,  bare- 
headed, before  that  great  audience. 

My  experience  in  the  world  is  limited, 
but  I  have  never  heard  anything  like  that 
speech  for  sheer  power.  It  was  as  unruly 
and  powerful  and  resistless  as  life  itself.  It 
was  not  like  any  other  speech  I  ever  heard, 
for  it  was  no  mere  giving  out  by  the  orator 
of  ideas  and  thoughts  and  feelings  of  his 
own.  It  seemed  rather  —  how  shall  I  de- 
scribe it?  —  as  though  the  speaker  was  looking 
into  the  very  hearts  of  that  vast  gathering 
of  poor  men  and  poor  women  and  merely  tell- 
ing them  what  they  themselves  felt,  but  could 
not  tell.  And  I  shall  never  forget  the  breath- 
less hush  of  the  people  or  the  quality  of  their 
responses  to  the  orator's  words.  It  was  as 
though  they  said,  "Yes,  yes"  -  —  with  a  feeling 
of  vast  relief  —  "Yes,  yes  —  at  last  our  own 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          277 

hopes  and  fears  and  desires  are  being  uttered — 
yes,  yes." 

As  for  the  orator  himself,  he  held  up  one 
maimed  hand  and  leaned  over  the  edge  of 
the  platform,  and  his  undistinguished  face 
glowed  with  the  white  light  of  a  great  passion 
within.  The  man  had  utterly  forgotten  him- 
self. 

I  confess,  among  those  eager  working 
people,  clad  in  their  poor  garments,  I  con- 
fess I  was  profoundly  moved.  Faith  is  not 
so  bounteous  a  commodity  in  this  world 
that  we  can  afford  to  treat  even  its  unfamiliar 
manifestations  with  contempt.  And  when 
a  movement  is  hot  with  life,  when  it  stirs 
common  men  to  their  depths,  look  out!  look 
out! 

Up  to  that  time  I  had  never  known  much 
of  the  practical  workings  of  Socialism;  and 
the  main  contention  of  its  philosophy  has 
never  accorded  wholly  with  my  experience 
in  life. 

But  the  Socialism  of  to-day  is  no  mere 
intellectual  abstraction  —  as  it  was,  perhaps, 
in  the  days  of  Brook  Farm.  It  is  a  mode  of 
action.  Men  whose  view  of  life  is  perfectly 
balanced  rarely  soil  themselves  with  the 


278         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

dust  of  battle.  The  heat  necessary  to  pro- 
duce social  conflict  (and  social  progress  — 
who  knows  ?)  is  generated  by  a  supreme  faith 
that  certain  principles  are  universal  in  their 
application  when  in  reality  they  are  only  local 
or  temporary. 

Thus  while  one  may  not  accept  the  philos- 
ophy of  Socialism  as  a  final  explanation  of 
human  life,  he  may  yet  look  upon  Social- 
ism in  action  as  a  powerful  method  of  stimu- 
lating human  progress.  The  world  has  been 
lagging  behind  in  its  sense  of  brotherhood, 
and  we  now  have  the  Socialists  knit  together 
in  a  fighting  friendship  as  fierce  and  narrow 
in  its  motives  as  Calvinism,  pricking  us  to 
reform,  asking  the  cogent  question: 

"Are  we  not  all  brothers?" 

Oh,  we  are  going  a  long  way  with  these 
Socialists,  we  are  going  to  discover  a  new 
world  of  social  relationships  —  and  then,  and 
then,  like  a  mighty  wave,  will  flow  in  upon  us 
a  renewed  and  more  wonderful  sense  of  the 
worth  of  the  individual  human  soul.  A  new 
individualism,  bringing  with  it,  perhaps,  some 
faint  realization  of  our  dreams  of  a  race  of 
Supermen,  lies  just  beyond!  Its  prophets, 
girded  with  rude  garments  and  feeding  upon 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          279 

the  wild  honey  of  poverty,  are  already  crying 
in  the  wilderness. 

I  think  I  could  have  remained  there  at  the 
Socialist  meeting  all  night  long:  there  was 
something  about  it  that  brought  a  hard,  dry 
twist  to  my  throat.  But  after  a  time  my 
friend  Bill  Hahn,  evidently  quite  worn  out, 
yielded  his  place  to  another  and  far  less 
clairvoyant  speaker,  and  the  crowd,  among 
whom  I  now  discovered  quite  a  number  of 
policemen,  began  to  thin  out. 

I  made  my  way  forward  and  saw  Bill 
Hahn  and  several  other  men  just  leaving  the 
platform.  I  stepped  up  to  him,  but  it  was 
not  until  I  called  him  by  name  (I  knew  how 
absent  minded  he  was !)  that  he  recognized  me. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said;  uyou  came  after  all!" 

He  seized  me  by  both  arms  and  intro- 
duced me  to  several  of  his  companions  as 
"Brother  Grayson."  They  all  shook  hands 
with  me  warmly. 

Although  he  was  perspiring,  Bill  put  on  his 
overcoat  and  the  old  fur  hat  with  the  ears, 
and  as  he  now  took  my  arm  I  could  feel  one 
of  his  bulging  pockets  beating  against  my 
leg.  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  where 


280         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

they  were  going,  but  Bill  held  me  by  the 
arm  and  presently  we  came,  a  block  or  so 
distant,  to  a  dark,  narrow  stairway  leading 
up  from  the  street.  I  recall  the  stumbling 
sound  of  steps  on  the  wooden  boards,  a 
laugh  or  two,  the  high  voice  of  a  woman 
asserting  and  denying.  Feeling  our  way 
along  the  wall,  we  came  to  the  top  and  went 
into  a  long,  low,  rather  dimly  lighted  room 
set  about  with  tables  and  chairs  —  a  sort 
of  restaurant.  A  number  of  men  and  a 
few  women  had  already  gathered  there. 
Among  them  my  eyes  instantly  singled  out 
a  huge,  rough-looking  man  who  stood  at  the 
centre  of  an  animated  group.  He  had  thick, 
shaggy  hair,  and  one  side  of  his  face  over 
the  cheekbone  was  of  a  dull  blue-black  and 
raked  and  scarred,  where  it  had  been  burned 
in  a  powder  blast.  He  had  been  a  miner. 
His  gray  eyes,  which  had  a  surprisingly 
youthful  and  even  humorous  expression, 
looked  out  from  under  coarse,  thick,  gray 
brows.  A  very  remarkable  face  and  figure 
he  presented.  I  soon  learned  that  he  was 

R D ,  the  leader  of  whom   I  had 

often  heard,  and  heard  no  good  thing.  He 
was  quite  a  different  type  from  Bill  Hahn: 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          281 

he  was  the  man  of  authority,  the  organizer, 
the  diplomat  —  as  Bill  was  the  prophet, 
preaching  a  holy  war. 

How  wonderful  human  nature  is !  Only  a 
short  time  before  I  had  been  thrilled  by  the 
intensity  of  the  passion  of  the  throng,  but  here 
the  mood  suddenly  changed  to  one  of  friendly 
gayety.  Fully  a  third  of  those  present  were 
women,  some  of  them  plainly  from  the  mills 
and  some  of  them  curiously  different  —  women 
from  other  walks  in  life  who  had  thrown  them- 
selves heart  and  soul  into  the  strike.  With- 
out ceremony  but  with  much  laughing  and 
joking,  they  found  their  places  around  the 
tables.  A  cook  who  appeared  in  a  dim  door- 
way was  greeted  with  a  shout,  to  which  he 
responded  with  a  wide  smile,  waving  the  long 
spoon  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  give  any  complete 
description  of  the  gathering  or  of  what 
they  said  or  did.  I  think  I  could  devote  a 
dozen  pages  to  the  single  man  who  was 
placed  next  to  me.  I  was  interested  in  him 
from  the  outset.  The  first  thing  that  struck 
me  about  him  was  an  air  of  neatness,  even 
fastidiousness,  about  his  person  —  though 
he  wore  no  stiff  collar,  only  a  soft  woollen 


282         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

shirt  without  a  necktie.  He  had  the  long, 
sensitive,  beautiful  hands  of  an  artist,  but 
his  face  was  thin  and  marked  with  the  pallor 
peculiar  to  the  indoor  worker.  I  soon  learned 
that  he  was  a  weaver  in  the  mills,  an  English- 
man by  birth,  and  we  had  not  talked  two 
minutes  before  I  found  that,  while  he  had 
never  had  any  education  in  the  schools,  he 
had  been  a  gluttonous  reader  of  books  — 
all  kinds  of  books  —  and,  what  is  more,  had 
thought  about  them  and  was  ready  with 
vigorous  (and  narrow)  opinions  about  this 
author  or  that.  And  he  knew  more  about 
economics  and  sociology,  I  firmly  believe, 
than  half  the  college  professors.  A  truly 
remarkable  man. 

It  was  an  Italian  restaurant,  and  I  re- 
member how,  in  my  hunger,  I  assailed 
the  generous  dishes  of  boiled  meat  and 
spaghetti.  A  red  wine  was  served  in  large 
bottles  which  circulated  rapidly  around  the 
table,  and  almost  immediately  the  room 
began  to  fill  with  tobacco  smoke.  Every 
one  seemed  to  be  talking  and  laughing  at 
once,  in  the  liveliest  spirit  of  good  fellowship. 
They  joked  from  table  to  table,  and  sometimes 
the  whole  room  would  quiet  down  while 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD         283 

some  one  told  a  joke,  which  invariably  wound 
up  with  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"Why,"  I  said,  "these  people  have  a 
whole  life,  a  whole  society,  of  their  own!" 

In  the  midst  of  this  jollity  the  clear  voice 
of  a  girl  rang  out  with  the  first  lines  of  a 
song.  Instantly  the  room  was  hushed: 

Arise,  ye  prisoners  of  starvation, 
Arise,  ye  wretched  of  the  earth, 

For  justice  thunders  condemnation 
A  better  world's  in  birth. 

These  were  the  words  she  sang,  and  when 
the  clear,  sweet  voice  died  down  the  whole 
company,  as  though  by  a  common  impulse, 
arose  from  their  chairs,  and  joined  in  a  great 
swelling  chorus: 

It  is  the  final  conflict, 

Let  each  stand  in  his  place, 
The  Brotherhood  of  Man 

Shall  be  the  human  race. 

It  was  beyond  belief,  to  me,  the  spirit 
with  which  these  words  were  sung.  In  no 
sense  with  jollity  —  all  that  seemed  to  have 
been  dropped  when  they  came  to  their  feet  — 
but  with  an  unmistakable  fervour  of  faith. 
Some  of  the  things  I  had  thought  and  dreamed 
about  secretly  among  the  hills  of  my  farm 


284         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

all  these  years,  dreamed  about  as  being  some- 
thing far  off  and  as  unrealizable  as  the  mil- 
lennium, were  here  being  sung  abroad  with 
jaunty  faith  by  these  weavers  of  Kilburn,  these 
weavers  and  workers  whom  I  had  schooled 
myself  to  regard  with  a  sort  of  distant  pity. 

Hardly  had  the  company  sat  down  again, 
with  a  renewal  of  the  flow  of  jolly  conversation 
when  I  heard  a  rapping  on  one  of  the  tables. 

I  saw  the  great  form  of  R D 

slowly  rising. 

"Brothers  and  sisters,"  he  said,  "a  word 
of  caution.  The  authorities  will  lose  no 
chance  of  putting  us  in  the  wrong.  Above 
all  we  must  comport  ourselves  here  and  in 
the  strike  with  great  care.  We  are  fighting 
a  great  battle,  bigger  than  we  are " 

At  this  instant  the  door  from  the  dark 
hallway  suddenly  opened  and  a  man  in  a 
policeman's  uniform  stepped  in.  There  fell 
an  instant's  dead  silence  —  an  explosive 
silence.  Every  person  there  seemed  to  be 
petrified  in  the  position  in  which  his  atten- 
tion was  attracted.  Every  eye  was  fixed 
on  the  figure  at  the  door.  For  an  instant 
no  one  said  a  word;  then  I  heard  a  woman's 
shrill  voice,  like  a  rifle-shot: 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          285 

"Assassin!" 

I  cannot  imagine  what  might  have  hap- 
pened next,  for  the  feeling  in  the  room,  as  in 
the  city  itself,  was  at  the  tensest,  had  not  the 
leader  suddenly  brought  the  goblet  which  he 
held  in  his  hand  down  with  a  bang  upon  the 
table. 

"As  I  was  saying,"  he  continued  in  a 
steady,  clear  voice,  "we  are  fighting  to- 
day the  greatest  of  battles,  and  we  cannot 
permit  trivial  incidents,  or  personal  bitter- 
ness, or  small  persecutions,  to  turn  us  from 
the  great  work  we  have  in  hand.  However 
our  opponents  may  comport  themselves,  we 
must  be  calm,  steady,  sure,  patient,  for  we 
know  that  our  cause  is  just  and  will  prevail." 

"You're  right,"  shouted  a  voice  back  in 
the  room. 

Instantly  the  tension  relaxed,  conversa- 
tion started  again  and  every  one  turned 
away  from  the  policeman  at  the  door.  In  a 
few  minutes,  he  disappeared  without  having 
said  a  word. 

There  was  no  regular  speaking,  and  about 
midnight  the  party  began  to  break  up. 
I  leaned  over  and  said  to  my  friend  Bill 
Hahn: 


286         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"Can  you  find  me  a  place  to  sleep  to- 
night?" 

"  Certainly  I  can,"  he  said  heartily. 

There  was  to  be  a  brief  conference  of 
the  leaders  after  the  supper,  and  most  of 
those  present  soon  departed.  I  went  down 
the  long,  dark  stairway  and  out  into  the 
almost  deserted  street.  Looking  up  between 
the  buildings  I  could  see  the  clear  blue  sky 
and  the  stars.  And  I  walked  slowly  up  and 
down  awaiting  my  friend  and  trying,  vainly, 
to  calm  my  whirling  emotions. 

He  came  at  last  and  I  went  with  him. 
That  night  I  slept  scarcely  at  all,  but  lay 
looking  up  into  the  darkness.  And  it  seemed 
as  though,  as  I  lay  there,  listening,  that  I 
could  hear  the  city  moving  in  its  restless 
sleep,  and  sighing  as  with  heavy  pain.  All 
night  long  I  lay  there  thinking. 


I  GRAPPLE  WITH  THE  CITY 


CHAPTER  XI 
I  GRAPPLE  WITH  THE  CITY 

I  HAVE  laughed  heartily  many  times  since 
I  came  home  to  think  of  the  Figure  of 
Tragedy  I  felt  myself  that  morning  in  the 
city  of  Kilburn.  I  had  not  slept  well,  had 
not  slept  at  all,  I  think,  and  the  experiences 
and  emotions  of  the  previous  night  still 
lay  heavy  upon  me.  Not  before  in  many 
years  had  I  felt  such  a  depression  of  the 
spirits. 

It  was  all  so  different  from  the  things  I 
love!     Not  so  much  as  a  spear  of  grass  or  a 
leafy  tree  to  comfort  the  eye,  or  a  bird  to 
289 


290         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

sing;  no  quiet  hills,  no  sight  of  the  sun 
coming  up  in  the  morning  over  dewy  fields, 
no  sound  of  cattle  in  the  lane,  no  cheerful 
cackling  of  fowls,  nor  buzzing  of  bees!  That 
morning,  I  remember,  when  I  first  went  out 
into  those  squalid  streets  and  saw  every- 
where the  evidences  of  poverty,  dirt,  and 
ignorance  —  and  the  sweet,  clean  country 
not  two  miles  away  —  the  thought  of  my 
own  home  among  the  hills  (with  Harriet 
there  in  the  doorway)  came  upon  me  with 
incredible  longing. 

"I  must  go  home;  I  must  go  home!" 
I  caught  myself  saying  aloud. 

I  remember  how  glad  I  was  when  I  found 
that  my  friend  Bill  Hahn  and  other  leaders 
of  the  strike  were  to  be  engaged  in  con- 
ferences during  the  forenoon,  for  I  wanted 
to  be  alone,  to  try  to  get  a  few  things  straight- 
ened out  in  my  mind. 

But  I  soon  found  that  a  city  is  a  poor 
place  for  reflection  or  contemplation.  It 
bombards  one  with  an  infinite  variety  of 
new  impressions  and  new  adventures;  and 
I  could  not  escape  the  impression  made 
by  crowded  houses,  and  ill-smelling  streets, 
and  dirty  sidewalks,  and  swarming  human 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          291 

beings.  For  a  time  the  burden  of  these 
things  rested  upon  my  breast  like  a  leaden 
weight;  they  all  seemed  so  utterly  wrong  to 
me,  so  unnecessary,  so  unjust!  I  sometimes 
think  of  religion  as  only  a  high  sense  of  good 
order;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  morning  as 
though  the  very  existence  of  this  disorderly 
mill  district  was  a  challenge  to  religion, 
and  an  offence  to  the  Orderer  of  an  Orderly 
Universe.  I  don't  know  how  such  condi- 
tions may  affect  other  people,  but  for  a  time 
I  felt  a  sharp  sense  of  impatience  —  yes, 
anger  —  with  it  all.  I  had  an  impulse  to 
take  off  my  coat  then  and  there  and  go 
at  the  job  of  setting  things  to  rights.  Oh,  I 
never  was  more  serious  in  my  life:  I  was 
quite  prepared  to  change  the  entire  scheme 
of  things  to  my  way  of  thinking  whether 
the  people  who  lived  there  liked  it  or  not. 
It  seemed  to  me  for  a  few  glorious  moments 
that  I  had  only  to  tell  them  of  the  wonders 
in  our  country,  the  pleasant,  quiet  roads,  the 
comfortable  farmhouses,  the  fertile  fields, 
and  the  wooded  hills  —  and,  poof!  all  this 
crowded  poverty  would  dissolve  and  disap- 
pear, and  they  would  all  come  to  the  country 
and  be  as  happy  as  I  was. 


292         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

I  remember  how,  once  in  my  life,  I  wasted 
untold  energy  trying  to  make  over  my  dear- 
est friends.  There  was  Harriet,  for  example, 
dear,  serious,  practical  Harriet.  I  used  to 
be  fretted  by  the  way  she  was  forever  trying 
to  clip  my  wing  feathers  —  I  suppose  to  keep 
me  close  to  the  quiet  and  friendly  and  unad- 
venturous  roost!  We  come  by  such  a  long, 
long  road,  sometimes,  to  the  acceptance 
of  our  nearest  friends  for  exactly  what 
they  are.  Because  we  are  so  fond  of  them 
we  try  to  make  them  over  to  suit  some  cu- 
rious ideal  of  perfection  of  our  own  —  until 
one  day  we  suddenly  laugh  aloud  at  our  own 
absurdity  (knowing  that  they  are  probably 
trying  as  hard  to  reconstruct  us  as  we  are 
to  reconstruct  them!)  and  thereafter  we  try 
no  more  to  change  them,  we  just  love  'em 
and  enjoy  'em! 

Some  such  psychological  process  went  on 
in  my  consciousness  that  morning.  As  I 
walked  briskly  through  the  streets  I  began 
to  look  out  more  broadly  around  me.  It  was 
really  a  perfect  spring  morning,  the  air 
crisp,  fresh,  and  sunny,  and  the  streets  full 
of  life  and  activity.  I  looked  into  the  faces 
of  the  people  I  met,  and  it  began  to  strike 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          293 

me  that  most  of  them  seemed  oblivious  of 
the  fact  that  they  should,  by  good  rights,  be 
looking  downcast  and  dispirited.  They  had 
cheered  their  approval  the  night  before  when 
the  speakers  had  told  them  how  miser- 
able they  were  (even  acknowledging  that 
they  were  slaves),  and  yet  here  they  were  this 
morning  looking  positively  good-humoured, 
cheerful,  some  of  them  even  gay.  I  warrant  if 
I  had  stepped  up  to  one  of  them  that  morning 
and  intimated  that  he  was  a  slave  he  would 
have  —  well,  I  should  have  had  serious  trouble 
with  him !  There  was  a  degree  of  sociability 
in  those  back  streets,  a  visiting  from  window 
to  window,  gossipy  gatherings  in  front  area- 
ways,  a  sort  of  pavement  domesticity,  that 
I  had  never  seen  before.  Being  a  lover  myself 
of  such  friendly  intercourse  I  could  actually 
feel  the  human  warmth  of  that  neighbour- 
hood. 

A  group  of  brightly  clad  girl  strikers  gath- 
ered on  a  corner  were  chatting  and  laughing, 
and  children  in  plenty  ran  and  shouted  at  their 
play  in  the  street.  I  saw  a  group  of  them 
dancing  merrily  around  an  Italian  hand-organ 
man  who  was  filling  the  air  with  jolly  music. 
I  recall  what  a  sinking  sensation  I  had  at 


294         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

the  pit  of  my  reformer's  stomach  when  it  sud- 
denly occurred  to  me  that  these  people, 
some  of  them,  anyway,  might  actually  like 
this  crowded,  sociable  neighbourhood!  "They 
might  even  hate  the  country,"  I  exclaimed. 

It  is  surely  one  of  the  fundamental  hu- 
mours of  life  to  see  absurdly  serious  little 
human  beings  (like  D.  G.  for  example)  try- 
ing to  stand  in  the  place  of  the  Almighty. 
We  are  so  confoundedly  infallible  in  our  judg- 
ments, so  sure  of  what  is  good  for  our  neigh- 
bour, so  eager  to  force  upon  him  our  par- 
ticular doctors  or  our  particular  remedies; 
we  are  so  willing  to  put  our  childish  fingers 
into  the  machinery  of  creation  —  and  we  howl 
so  lustily  when  we  get  them  pinched ! 

"Why!"  I  exclaimed,  for  it  came  to  me 
like  a  new  discovery,  "it's  exactly  the  same 
here  as  it  is  in  the  country!  I  haven't  got 
to  make  over  the  universe:  I've  only  got  to 
do  my  own  small  job,  and  to  look  up  often 
at  the  trees  and  the  hills  and  the  sky  and 
be  friendly  with  all  men." 

I  cannot  express  the  sense  of  comfort, 
and  of  trust,  which  this  reflection  brought 
me.  I  recall  stopping  just  then  at  the  corner 
of  a  small  green  city  square,  for  I  had  now 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          295 

reached  the  better  part  of  the  city,  and  of 
seeing  with  keen  pleasure  the  green  of  the 
grass  and  the  bright  colour  of  a  bed  of  flowers, 
and  two  or  three  clean  nursemaids  with 
clean  baby  cabs,  and  a  flock  of  pigeons 
pluming  themselves  near  a  stone  fountain, 
and  an  old  tired  horse  sleeping  in  the  sun 
with  his  nose  buried  in  a  feed  bag. 

"Why,"  I  said,  "all  this,  too,  is  beautiful!" 

So  I  continued  my  walk  with  quite  a  new 
feeling  in  my  heart,  prepared  again  for  any 
adventure  life  might  have  to  offer  me. 

I  supposed  I  knew  no  living  soul  in  Kilburn 
but  Bill  the  Socialist.  What  was  my  aston- 
ishment and  pleasure,  then,  in  one  of  the 
business  streets  to  discover  a  familiar  face 
and  figure.  A  man  was  just  stepping  from  an 
automobile  to  the  sidewalk.  For  an  instant, 
in  that  unusual  environment,  I  could  not 
place  him,  then  I  stepped  up  quickly  and 
said: 

"Well,  well,  Friend  Vedder." 

He  looked  around  with  astonishment  at 
the  man  in  the  shabby  clothes  —  but  it  was 
only  for  an  instant. 

"David  Grayson!"  he  exclaimed,  "and 
how  did  you  get  into  the  city?" 


296         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"Walked,"  I  said. 

"But  I  thought  you  were  an  incurable 
and  irreproachable  countryman !  Why  are  you 
here?" 

"Love  o'  life,"  I  said;  "love  o'  life." 

"Where  are  you  stopping?" 

I  waved  my  hand. 

"Where  the  road  leaves  me,"  I  said. 
"Last  night  I  left  my  bag  with  some  good 
friends  I  made  in  front  of  a  livery  stable 
and  I  spent  the  night  in  the  mill  district 
with  a  Socialist  named  Bill  Hahn." 

"  Bill  Hahn ! "  The  effect  upon  Mr.  Vedder 
was  magical. 

"Why,  yes,"  I  said,  "and  a  remarkable 
man  he  is,  too." 

I  discovered  immediately  that  my  friend 
was  quite  as  much  interested  in  the  strike  as 
Bill  Hahn,  but  on  the  other  side.  He  was, 
indeed,  one  of  the  directors  of  the  greatest 
mill  in  Kilburn  —  the  very  one  which  I  had 
seen  the  night  before  surrounded  by  armed 
sentinels.  It  was  thrilling  to  me,  this  knowl- 
edge, for  it  seemed  to  plump  me  down  at 
once  in  the  middle  of  things  —  and  soon,  in- 
deed, brought  me  nearer  to  the  brink  of  great 
events  than  ever  I  was  before  in  all  my  days. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          297 

I  could  see  that  Mr.  Vedder  considered 
Bill  Hahn  as  a  sort  of  devouring  monster, 
a  wholly  incendiary  and  dangerous  person. 
So  terrible,  indeed,  was  the  warning  he  gave 
me  (considering  me,  I  suppose  an  unsophisti- 
cated person)  that  I  couldn't  help  laughing 
outright. 

"I  assure  you "  he  began,  apparently 

much  offended. 

But  I  interrupted  him. 

"I'm  sorry  I  laughed,"  I  said,  "but  as 
you  were  talking  about  Bill  Hahn,  I  couldn't 
help  thinking  of  him  as  I  first  saw  him." 
And  I  gave  Mr.  Vedder  as  lively  a  description 
as  I  could  of  the  little  man  with  his  bulging 
coat  tails,  his  furry  ears,  his  odd  round 
spectacles.  He  was  greatly  interested  in 
what  I  said  and  began  to  ask  many  questions. 
I  told  him  with  all  the  earnestness  I  could  com- 
mand of  Bill's  history  and  of  his  conversion 
to  his  present  beliefs.  I  found  that  Mr. 
Vedder  had  known  Robert  Winter  very  well 
indeed,  and  was  amazed  at  the  incident  which 
I  narrated  of  Bill  Hahn's  attempt  upon  his 
life. 

I  have  always  believed  that  if  men  could 
be  made  to  understand  one  another  they 


298         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

would  necessarily  be  friendly,  so  I  did  my 
best  to  explain  Bill  Hahn  to  Mr.  Vedder. 

"I'm  tremendously  interested  in  what  you 
say,"  he  said,  "and  we  must  have  more  talk 
about  it." 

He  told  me  that  he  had  now  to  put  in  an 
appearance  at  his  office,  and  wanted  me 
to  go  with  him;  but  upon  my  objection  he 
pressed  me  to  take  luncheon  with  him  a  little 
later,  an  invitation  which  I  accepted  with 
real  pleasure. 

"We  haven't  had  a  word  about  gardens," 
he  said,  "and  there  are  no  end  of  things  that 
Mrs.  Vedder  and  I  found  that  we  wanted  to 
talk  with  you  about  after  you  had  left  us." 

"Well,"  I  said,  much  delighted,  "let's  have 
a  regular  old-fashioned  country  talk." 

So  we  parted  for  the  time  being,  and  I 
set  off  in  the  highest  spirits  to  see  some- 
thing more  of  Kilburn. 

A  city,  after  all,  is  a  very  wonderful 
place.  One  thing,  I  recall,  impressed  me 
powerfully  that  morning  —  the  way  in  which 
every  one  was  working,  apparently  without 
any  common  agreement  or  any  common 
purpose,  and  yet  with  a  high  sort  of  under- 
standing. The  first  hearing  of  a  difficult 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          299 

piece  of  music  (to  an  uncultivated  ear  like 
mine)  often  yields  nothing  but  a  confused 
sense  of  unrelated  motives,  but  later  and 
deeper  hearings  reveal  the  harmony  which 
ran  so  clear  in  the  master's  soul. 

Something  of  this  sort  happened  to  me 
in  looking  out  upon  the  life  of  that  great 
city  of  Kilburn.  All  about  on  the  streets, 
in  the  buildings,  under  ground  and  above 
ground,  men  were  walking,  running,  creeping, 
crawling,  climbing,  lifting,  digging,  driving, 
buying,  selling,  sweating,  swearing,  praying, 
loving,  hating,  struggling,  failing,  sinning, 
repenting  —  all  working  and  living  according 
to  a  vast  harmony,  which  sometimes  we  can 
catch  clearly  and  sometimes  miss  entirely.  I 
think,  that  morning,  for  a  time,  I  heard  the 
true  music  of  the  spheres,  the  stars  singing 
together. 

Mr.  Vedder  took  me  to  a  quiet  restaurant 
where  we  had  a  snug  alcove  all  to  ourselves. 
I  shall  remember  it  always  as  one  of  the 
truly  pleasant  experiences  of  my  pilgrimage. 

I  could  see  that  my  friend  was  sorely 
troubled,  that  the  strike  rested  heavy  upon 
him,  and  so  I  led  the  conversation  to  the 
hills  and  the  roads  and  the  fields  we  both 


300         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

love  so  much.  I  plied  him  with  a  thousand 
questions  about  his  garden.  I  told  him  in 
the  liveliest*  way  of  my  adventures  after 
leaving  his  home,  how  I  had  telephoned  him 
from  the  hills,  how  I  had  taken  a  swim  in 
the  mill-pond,  and  especially  how  I  had  lost 
myself  in  the  old  cowpasture,  with  an  account 
of  all  my  absurd  and  laughable  adventures 
and  emotions. 

Well,  before  we  had  finished  our  luncheon 
I  had  every  line  ironed  from  the  brow  of 
that  poor  plagued  rich  man,  I  had  brought 
jolly  crinkles  to  the  corners  of  his  eyes, 
and  once  or  twice  I  had  him  chuckling  down 
deep  inside  (where  chuckles  are  truly  effect- 
ive). Talk  about  cheering  up  the  poor:  I 
think  the  rich  are  usually  far  more  in  need 
of  it! 

But  I  couldn't  keep  the  conversation 
in  these  delightful  channels.  Evidently  the 
strike  and  all  that  it  meant  lay  heavy  upon 
Mr.  Vedder's  consciousness,  for  he  pushed 
back  his  coffee  and  began  talking  about  it, 
almost  in  a  tone  of  apology.  He  told  me 
how  kind  he  had  tried  to  make  the  mill 
management  in  its  dealings  with  its  men. 

"I  would  not  speak  of  it  save  in  explana- 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          301 

tion  of  our  true  attitude  of  helpfulness;  but 
we  have  really  given  our  men  many  advan- 
tages"—  and  he  told  me  of  the  reading-room 
the  company  had  established,  of  the  visiting 
nurse  they  had  employed,  and  of  several 
other  excellent  enterprises,  which  gave  only 
another  proof  of  what  I  knew  already  of  Mr. 
Vedder's  sincere  kindness  of  heart. 

"But,"  he  said,  "we  find  they  don't  appre- 
ciate what  we  try  to  do  for  them." 

I  laughed  outright. 

"Why,"  I  exclaimed,  "you  are  having  the 
same  trouble  I  have  had!" 

"How's  that?"  he  inquired,  I  thought  a 
little  sharply.  Men  don't  like  to  have  their 
seriousness  trifled  with. 

"No  longer  ago  than  this  morning,"  I 
said,  "  I  had  exactly  that  idea  of  giving  them 
advantages;  but  I  found  that  the  difficulty 
lies  not  with  the  ability  to  give,  but  with  the 
inability  or  unwillingness  to  take.  You  see 
I  have  a  great  deal  of  surplus  wealth  my- 
self   'I 

Mr.  Vedder's  eyes  flickered  up  at  me. 
.  "Yes,"  I  said.     "I've  got  immense  accu- 
mulations of  the  wealth  of  the  ages  —  ingots 
of  Emerson  and  Whitman,  for  example,  gems 


302         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

of  Voltaire,  and  I  can't  tell  what  other 
superfluous  coinage!"  (And  I  waved  my 
hand  in  the  most  grandiloquent  manner.) 
"IVe  also  quite  a  store  of  knowledge  of  corn 
and  calves  and  cucumbers,  and  Pve  a  bound- 
less domain  of  exceedingly  valuable  land- 
scapes. I  am  prepared  to  give  bountifully 
of  all  these  varied  riches  (for  I  shall  still 
have  plenty  remaining),  but  the  fact  is  that 
this  generation  of  vipers  doesn't  appreciate 
what  I  am  trying  to  do  for  them.  I'm  really 
getting  frightened,  lest  they  permit  me  to 
perish  from  undistributed  riches!" 

Mr,  Vedder  was  still  smiling. 

"Oh,"  I  said,  warming  up  to  my  idea, 
"I'm  a  regular  multimillionaire.  I've  got 
so  much  wealth  that  I'm  afraid  I  shall  not 
be  as  fortunate  as  jolly  Andy  Carnegie,  for 
I  don't  see  how  I  can  possibly  die  poor!" 

"Why  not  found  a  university  or  so?" 
asked  Mr.  Vedder. 

"Well,  I  had  thought  of  that.  It's  a 
good  idea.  Let's  join  our  forces  and  establish 
a  university  where  truly  serious  people  can 
take  courses  in  laughter." 

"Fine  idea!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Vedder;  "but 
wouldn't  it  require  an  enormous  endowment 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD         303 

to  accommodate  all  the  applicants?  You  must 
remember  that  this  is  a  very  benighted  and 
illiterate  world,  laughingly  speaking." 

"It  is,  indeed,"  I  said,  "but  you  must 
remember  that  many  people,  for  a  long 
time,  will  be  too  serious  to  apply.  I  wonder 
sometimes  if  any  one  ever  learns  to  laugh — 
really  laugh  —  much  before  he  is  forty." 

"But,"  said  Mr.  Vedder  anxiously,  "do 
you  think  such  an  institution  would  be 
accepted  by  the  proletariat  of  the  serious- 
minded?" 

"Ah,  that's  the  trouble,"  said  I,  "that's 
the  trouble.  The  proletariat  doesn't  ap- 
preciate what  we  are  trying  to  do  for  them! 
They  don't  want  your  reading-rooms  nor  my 
Emerson  and  cucumbers.  The  seat  of  the 
difficulty  seems  to  be  that  what  seems  wealth 
to  us  isn't  necessarily  wealth  for  the  other 
fellow." 

I  cannot  tell  with  what  delight  we  fenced 
our  way  through  this  foolery  (which  was  not 
all  foolery,  either).  I  never  met  a  man  more 
quickly  responsive  than  Mr.  Vedder.  But 
he  now  paused  for  some  moments,  evidently 
ruminating. 

"Well,  David,"  he  said  seriously,   "what 


304         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

are  we  going  to  do  about  this  obstreperous 
other  fellow?" 

"Why  not  try  the  experiment,"  I  suggested, 
"of  giving  him  what  he  considers  wealth, 
instead  of  what  you  consider  wealth?" 

"But  what  does  he  consider  wealth?" 

"Equality,"  said  I. 

Mr.  Vedder  threw  up  his  hands. 

"  So  you're  a  Socialist,  too ! " 

"That,"  I  said,  "is  another  story." 

"Well,  supposing  we  did  or  could  give 
him  this  equality  you  speak  of  —  what  would 
become  of  us?  What  would  we  get  out  of 
it?" 

"Why,  equality,  too!"  I  said. 

Mr.  Vedder  threw  up  his  hands  with  a 
gesture  of  mock  resignation. 

"Come,"  said  he,  "let's  get  down  out 
of  Utopia!" 

We  had  some  further  good-humoured  fenc- 
ing and  then  returned  to  the  inevitable 
problem  of  the  strike.  While  we  were  dis- 
cussing the  meeting  of  the  night  before 
which,  I  learned,  had  been  luridly  reported 
in  the  morning  papers,  Mr.  Vedder  suddenly 
turned  to  me  and  asked  earnestly: 

"Are  you  really  a  Socialist?" 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          305 

"Well,"  said  I,  "I'm  sure  of  one  thing. 
I'm  not  all  Socialist.  Bill  Hahn  believes 
with  his  whole  soul  (and  his  faith  has  made 
him  a  remarkable  man)  that  if  only  another 
class  of  people  —  his  class  —  could  come  into 
the  control  of  material  property,  that  all  the 
ills  that  man  is  heir  to  would  be  speedily 
cured.  But  I  wonder  if  when  men  own  prop- 
erty collectively  —  as  they  are  going  to  one 
of  these  days  —  they  will  quarrel  and  hate 
one  another  any  less  than  they  do  now. 
It  is  not  the  ownership  of  material  property 
that  interests  me  so  much  as  the  independ- 
ence of  it.  When  I  started  out  from  my  farm 
on  this  pilgrimage  it  seemed  to  me  the  most 
blessed  thing  in  the  world  to  get  away  from 
property  and  possession." 

"What  are  you  then,  anyway?"  asked 
Mr.  Vedder,  smiling. 

"Well,  I've  thought  of  a  name  I  would 
like  to  have  applied  to  me  sometimes," 
I  said.  "You  see  I'm  tremendously  fond 
of  this  world  exactly  as  it  is  now.  Mr. 
Vedder,  it's  a  wonderful  and  beautiful  place! 
I've  never  seen  a  better  one.  I  confess  I 
could  not  possibly  live  in  the  rarefied  atmos- 
phere of  a  final  solution.  I  want  to  live 


306         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

right  here  and  now  for  all  I'm  worth.  The 
other  day  a  man  asked  me  what  I  thought 
was  the  best  time  of  life.  Why,'  I  answered 
without  a  thought,  'Now.'  It  has  always 
seemed  to  me  that  if  a  man  can't  make  a  go  of 
it,  yes,  and  be  happy  at  this  moment,  he 
can't  be  at  the  next  moment.  But  most  of 
all,  it  seems  to  me,  I  want  to  get  close  to 
people,  to  look  into  their  hearts,  and  be 
friendly  with  them.  Mr.  Vedder,  do  you 
know  what  I'd  like  to  be  called?" 

"I  cannot  imagine,"  said  he. 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  be  called  an  Introducer. 
My  friend,  Mr.  Blacksmith,  let  me  introduce 
you  to  my  friend,  Mr.  Plutocrat.  I  could 
almost  swear  that  you  were  brothers,  so 
near  alike  are  you!  You'll  find  each  other 
wonderfully  interesting  once  you  get  over 
the  awkwardness  of  the  introduction.  And, 
Mr.  White  Man,  let  me  present  you  partic- 
ularly to  my  good  friend,  Mr.  Negro.  You 
will  see  if  you  sit  down  to  it  that  this  curious 
colour  of  the  face  is  only  skin  deep." 

"It's  a  good  name!"  said  Mr.  Vedder, 
laughing. 

"It's  a  wonderful  name,"  said  I,  "and 
it's  about  the  biggest  and  finest  work  in 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          307 

the  world  —  to  know  human  beings  just 
as  they  are,  and  to  make  them  acquainted 
with  one  another  just  as  they  are.  Why, 
it's  the  foundation  of  all  the  democracy 
there  is,  or  ever  will  be.  Sometimes  I  think 
that  friendliness  is  the  only  achievement 
of  life  worth  while  —  and  unfriendliness  the 
only  tragedy." 

I  have  since  felt  ashamed  of  myself  when  I 
thought  how  I  lectured  my  unprotected 
host  that  day  at  luncheon;  but  it  seemed 
to  boil  out  of  me  irresistibly.  The  ex- 
periences of  the  past  two  days  had  stirred 
me  to  the  very  depths,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
I  must  explain  to  somebody  how  it  all  im- 
pressed me  —  and  to  whom  better  than  to 
my  good  friend  Vedder? 

As  we  were  leaving  the  table  an  idea  flashed 
across  my  mind  which  seemed,  at  first,  so 
wonderful  that  it  quite  turned  me  dizzy. 

"See  here,  Mr.  Vedder,"  I  exclaimed, 
"let  me  follow  my  occupation  practically. 
I  know  Bill  Hahn  and  I  know  you.  Let 
me  introduce  you.  If  you  could  only  get 
together,  if  you  could  only  understand  what 
good  fellows  you  both  are,  it  might  go  far 
toward  solving  these  difficulties." 


308         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

I  had  some  trouble  persuading  him,  but 
finally  he  consented,  said  he  wanted  to  leave 
no  stone  unturned,  and  that  he  would  meet 
Bill  Hahn  and  some  of  the  other  leaders,  if 
proper  arrangements  could  be  made. 

I  left  him,  therefore,  in  excitement,  feeling 
that  I  was  at  the  point  of  playing  a  part 
in  a  very  great  event.  "Once  get  these  men 
together,"  I  thought,  "and  they  must  come 
to  an  understanding." 

So  I  rushed  out  to  the  mill  district,  say- 
ing to  myself  over  and  over  (I  have  smiled 
about  it  since!):  "We'll  settle  this  strike: 
we'll  settle  this  strike:  we'll  settle  this  strike." 
After  some  searching  I  found  my  friend  Bill 
in  the  little  room  over  a  saloon  that  served 
as  strike  headquarters.  A  dozen  or  more  of 
the  leaders  were  there,  faintly  distinguishable 
through  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke.  Among 

them  sat  the  great  R D ,  his  burly 

figure  looming  up  at  one  end  of  the  table, 
and  his  strong,  rough,  iron-jawed  face  turning 
first  toward  this  speaker  and  then  toward 
that.  The  discussion,  which  had  evidently 
been  lively,  died  down  soon  after  I  appeared  at 
the  door,  and  Bill  Hahn  came  out  to  me  and 
we  sat  down  together  in  the  adjoining  room. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          309 

Here  I  broke  eagerly  into  an  account  of  the 
happenings  of  the  day,  described  my  chance 
meeting  with  Mr.  Vedder  —  who  was  well 
known  to  Bill  by  reputation — and  finally  asked 
him  squarely  whether  he  would  meet  him.  I 
think  my  enthusiasm  quite  carried  him  away. 

"Sure,  I  will,"  said  Bill  Hahn  heartily. 

"When  and  where?"  I  asked,  "and  will 
any  of  the  other  men  join  you  ? " 

Bill  was  all  enthusiasm  at  once,  for  that 
was  the  essence  of  his  temperament,  but  he 
said  that  he  must  first  refer  it  to  the  com- 
mittee. I  waited,  in  a  tense  state  of  im- 
patience, for  what  seemed  to  me  a  very  long 
time;  but  finally  the  door  opened  and  Bill 

Hahn    came    out    bringing    R D' — 

himself  with  him.     We  all  sat  down  together, 

and    R—     -   D began  to  ask   questions 

(he  was  evidently  suspicious  as  to  who  and 
what  I  was);  but  I  think,  after  I  talked  with 
them  for  some  time  that  I  made  them  see  the 
possibilities  and  the  importance  of  such 
a  meeting.  I  was  greatly  impressed  with 

R D ,  the  calmness  and  steadiness 

of  the  man,  his  evident  shrewdness.  "A 
real  general,"  I  said  to  myself.  "I  should 
like  to  know  him  better." 


3io         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

After  a  long  talk  they  returned  to  the 
other  room,  closing  the  door  behind  them, 
and  I  waited  again,  still  more  impatiently. 

It  seems  rather  absurd  now,  but  at  that 
moment  I  felt  firmly  convinced  that  I  was 
on  the  way  to  the  permanent  settlement  of  a 
struggle  which  had  occupied  the  best  brains 
of  Kilburn  for  many  weeks. 

While  I  was  waiting  in  that  dingy  ante- 
room, the  other  door  slowly  opened  and  a 
boy  stuck  his  head  in. 

"  Is  David  Grayson  here  ? "  he  asked. 

"Here  he  is,"  said  I,  greatly  astonished 
that  any  one  in  Kilburn  should  be  inquir- 
ing for  me,  or  should  know  where  I  was. 

The  boy  came  in,  looked  at  me  with  jolly 
round  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  dug  a  letter 
out  of  his  pocket.  I  opened  it  at  once,  and 
glancing  at  the  signature  discovered  that  it 
was  from  Mr.  Vedder. 

"He  said  I'd  probably  find  you  at  strike 
headquarters,"  remarked  the  boy. 

This  was  the  letter:  marked  "Confidential." 

MY  DEAR  GRAYSON:  I  think  you  must  be  something  of  a 
hypnotist.  After  you  left  me  I  began  to  think  of  the  proj- 
ect you  mentioned,  and  I  have  talked  it  over  with  one  or 
two  of  my  associates.  I  would  gladly  hold  this  conference, 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          311 

but  it  does  not  now  seem  wise  for  us  to  do  so.  The  in- 
terests we  represent  are  too  important  to  be  jeopardized. 
In  theory  you  are  undoubtedly  right,  but  in  this  case  I 
think  you  will  agree  with  me  (when  you  think  it  over),  we 
must  not  show  any  weakness.  Come  and  stop  with  us 
to-night:  Mrs.  Vedder  will  be  overjoyed  to  see  you  and 
we'll  have  another  fine  talk. 

I  confess  I  was  a  good  deal  cast  down  as 
I  read  this  letter. 

"What  interests  are  so  important?"  I  asked 
myself,  "that  they  should  keep  friends  apart?" 

But  I  was  given  only  a  moment  for  reflec- 
tion for  the  door  opened  and  my  friend  Bill, 

together  with  R D and  several 

other  members  of  the  committee,  came  out. 
I  put  the  letter  in  my  pocket,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment my  brain  never  worked  under  higher 
pressure.  What  should  I  say  to  them  now? 
How  could  I  explain  myself? 

Bill  Hahn  was  evidently  labouring  under 

considerable  excitement,  but  R D 

was  as  calm  as  a  judge.  He  sat  down  in  the 
chair  opposite  and  said  to  me: 

"We've  been  figuring  out  this  proposition 
of  Mr.  Vedder's.  Your  idea  is  all  right,  and 
it  would  be  a  fine  thing  if  we  could  really 
get  together  as  you  suggest  upon  terms  of 
common  understanding  and  friendship." 


3I2          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"Just  what  Mr.  Vedder  said,  "  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  "it's  all  right  in 
theory;  but  in  this  case  it  simply  won't  work. 
Don't  you  see  it's  got  to  be  war?  Your 
friend  and  I  could  probably  understand  each 
other  —  but  this  is  a  class  war.  It's  all  or 
nothing  with  us,  and  your  friend  Vedder 
knows'  it  as  well  as  we  do." 

After  some  further  argument  and  explana- 
tion, I  said: 

"I  see:  and  this  is  Socialism." 

"Yes,"  said  the  great  R D ,  "this 

is  Socialism." 

"And  it's  force  you  would  use,"  I  said. 

"It's  force  they  use,"  he  replied. 

After  I  left  the  strike  headquarters  that 
evening  —  for  it  was  almost  dark  before  I 
parted  with  the  committee  —  I  walked  straight 
out  through  the  crowded  streets,  so  absorbed 
in  my  thoughts  that  I  did  not  know  in  the 
least  where  I  was  going.  The  street  lights 
came  out,  the  crowds  began  to  thin  away,  I 
heard  a  strident  song  from  a  phonograph  at 
the  entrance  to  a  picture  show,  and  as  I 
passed  again  in  front  of  the  great,  dark, 
many-windowed  mill  which  had  made  my 
friend  Vedder  a  rich  man  I  saw  a  sentinel 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD         313 

turn  slowly  at  the  corner.  The  light  glinted 
on  the  steel  of  his  bayonet.  He  had  a 
fresh,  fine,  boyish  face. 

"We  have  some  distance  yet  to  go  in 
this  world,"  I  said  to  myself,  "no  man  need 
repine  for  lack  of  good  work  ahead." 

It  was  only  a  little  way  beyond  this  mill 
that  an  incident  occurred  which  occupied 
probably  not  ten  minutes  of  time,  and  yet 
I  have  thought  about  it  since  I  came  home 
as  much  as  I  have  thought  about  any  other 
incident  of  my  pilgrimage.  I  have  thought 
how  I  might  have  acted  differently  under  the 
circumstances,  how  I  could  have  said  this 
or  how  I  ought  to  have  done  that  —  all,  of 
course,  now  to  no  purpose  whatever.  But 
I  shall  not  attempt  to  tell  what  I  ought 
to  have  done  or  said,  but  what  I  actually 
did  do  and  say  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 

It  was  in  a  narrow,  dark  street  which 
opened  off  the  brightly  lighted  main  thorough- 
fare of  that  mill  neighbourhood.  A  girl 
standing  in  the  shadows  between  two  build- 
ings said  to  me  as  I  passed: 

"Good  evening." 

I  stopped  instantly,  it  was  such  a  pleasant, 
friendly  voice. 


3H         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"Good  evening,"  I  said,  lifting  my  hat 
and  wondering  that  there  should  be  any 
one  here  in  this  back  street  who  knew 
me. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked. 

I  stepped  over  quickly  toward  her,  hat 
in  hand.  She  was  a  mere  slip  of  a  girl, 
rather  comely,  I  thought,  with  small  childish 
features  and  a  half-timid,  half-bold  look  in 
her  eyes.  I  could  not  remember  having  seen 
her  before. 

She  smiled  at  me  —  and  then  I  knew! 

Well,  if  some  one  had  struck  me  a  brutal 
blow  in  the  face  I  could  not  have  been  more 
astonished. 

We  know  of  things !  —  and  yet  how  little 
we  know  until  they  are  presented  to  us 
in  concrete  form.  Just  such  a  little  school 
girl  as  I  have  seen  a  thousand  times  in  the 
country,  the  pathetic  childish  curve  of  the 
chin,  a  small  rebellious  curl  hanging  low  on 
her  temple. 

I  could  not  say  a  word.  The  girl  evidently 
saw  in  my  face  that  something  was  the  matter, 
for  she  turned  and  began  to  move  quickly 
away.  Such  a  wave  of  compassion  (and 
anger,  too)  swept  over  me  as  I  cannot  well 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          315 

describe.  I  stepped  after  her  and  asked  in  a 
low  voice : 

"Do  you  work  in  the  mills?" 

"Yes,  when  there's  work." 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Maggie " 

"Well,  Maggie,"  I  said,  "let's  be  friends." 

She  looked  around  at  me  curiously,  ques- 
tioningly. 

"And  friends,"  I  said,  "should  know  some- 
thing about  each  other.  You  see  I  am  a  farmer 
from  the  country.  I  used  to  live  in  a  city 
myself,  a  good  many  years  ago,  but  I  got 
tired  and  sick  and  hopeless.  There  was  so 
much  that  was  wrong  about  it.  I  tried  to 
keep  the  pace  and  could  not.  I  wish  I  could 
tell  you  what  the  country  has  done  for 
me." 

We  were  walking  along  slowly,  side  by 
side,  the  girl  perfectly  passive  but  glancing 
around  at  me  from  time  to  time  with  a 
wondering  look.  I  don't  know  in  the  least 
now  what  prompted  me  to  do  it,  but  I  began 
telling  in  a  quiet,  low  voice  —  for,  after  all, 
she  was  only  a  child  —  I  began  telling  her 
about  our  chickens  at  the  farm  and  how 
Harriet  had  named  them  all,  and  one  was 


316         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

Frances  E.  Willard,  and  one,  a  speckled 
one,  was  Martha  Washington,  and  I  told 
her  of  the  curious  antics  of  Martha  Wash- 
ington and  of  the  number  of  eggs  she  laid, 
and  of  the  sweet  new  milk  we  had  to 
drink,  and  the  honey  right  out  of  our  own 
hives,  and  of  the  things  growing  in  the 
garden. 

Once  she  smiled  a  little,  and  once  she 
looked  around  at  me  with  a  curious,  timid, 
half-wistful  expression  in  her  eyes. 

"Maggie,"  I  said,  "I  wish  you  could  go 
to  the  country." 

"I  wish  to  God  I  could,"  she  replied. 

We  walked  for  a  moment  in  silence.  My 
head  was  whirling  with  thoughts:  again  I 
had  that  feeling  of  helplessness,  of  inad- 
equacy, which  I  had  felt  so  sharply  on  the 
previous  evening.  What  could  I  do? 

When  we  reached  the  corner,  I  said: 

"  Maggie,  I  will  see  you  safely  home." 

She  laughed  —  a  hard,  bitter  laugh. 

"Oh,  I  don't  need  any  one  to  show  me 
around  these  streets ! " 

"I  will  see  you  home,"  I  said. 

So  we  walked  quickly  along  the  street  to- 
gether. 


"  We  were  walking  along  slowly,  side  by  side 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          317 

"Here  it  is,"  she  said  finally,  pointing 
to  a  dark,  mean-looking,  one-story  house,  set 
in  a  dingy,  barren  areaway. 

"Well,  good  night,  Maggie,"  I  said,  "and 
good  luck  to  you." 

"Good  night,"  she  said  faintly. 

When  I  had  walked  to  the  corner,  I  stopped 
and  looked  back.  She  was  standing  stock- 
still  just  where  I  had  left  her  —  a  figure  I 
shall  never  forget. 

I  have  hesitated  about  telling  of  a  further 
strange  thing  that  happened  to  me  that 
night  —  but  have  decided  at  last  to  put  it 
in.  I  did  not  accept  Mr.  Vedder's  invitation: 
I  could  not;  but  I  returned  to  the  room  in  the 
tenement  where  I  had  spent  the  previous 
night  with  Bill  Hahn  the  Socialist.  It  was 
a  small,  dark,  noisy  room,  but  I  was  so  weary 
that  I  fell  almost  immediately  into  a  heavy 
sleep.  An  hour  or  more  later  —  I  don't  know 
how  long  indeed  —  I  was  suddenly  awakened 
and  found  myself  sitting  bolt  upright  in  bed. 
It  was  close  and  dark  and  warm  there  in 
the  room,  and  from  without  came  the  muffled 
sounds  of  the  city.  For  an  instant  I  waited, 
rigid  with  expectancy.  And  then  I  heard 


3i8         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

as  clearly  and  plainly  as  ever  I  heard  any- 
thing: 

"David!  David!"  in  my  sister  Harriet's 
voice. 

It  was  exactly  the  voice  in  which  she  has 
called  me  a  thousand  times.  Without  an 
instant's  hesitation,  I  stepped  out  of  bed 
and  called  out: 

"I'm  coming,  Harriet!  I'm  coming!" 

"What's  the  matter?"  inquired  Bill  Hahn 
sleepily. 

"Nothing,"  I  replied,  and  crept  back  into 
bed. 

It  may  have  been  the  result  of  the  strain 
and  excitement  of  the  previous  two  days.  I 
don't  explain  it  —  I  can  only  tell  what 
happened. 

Before  I  went  to  sleep  again  I  determined 
to  start  straight  for  home  in  the  morning: 
and  having  decided,  I  turned  over,  drew  a  long, 
comfortable  breath  and  did  not  stir  again,  I 
think,  until  long  after  the  morning  sun  shone 
in  at  the  window. 


THE  RETURN 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  RETURN 

"Everything  divine  runs  with,  light  feet" 

SURELY  the  chief  delight  of  going  away 
from  home  is  the  joy  of  getting  back  again. 
I  shall  never  forget  that  spring  morning  when 
I  walked  from  the  city  of  Kilburn  into  the 
open  country  —  my  bag  on  my  back,  a  song 
in  my  throat,  and  the  gray  road  stretching 
straight  before  me.     I  remember  how  eagerly 
I  looked  out  across  the  fields  and  meadows 
and  rested  my  eyes  upon  the  distant  hills. 
331 


322         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

How  roomy  it  all  was!  I  looked  up  into  the 
clear  blue  of  the  sky.  There  was  space  here 
to  breathe,  and  distances  in  which  the  spirit 
might  spread  its  wings.  As  the  old  prophet 
says,  it  was  a  place  where  a  man  might  be 
placed  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  earth. 

I  was  strangely  glad  that  morning  of 
every  little  stream  that  ran  under  the  bridges, 
I  was  glad  of  the  trees  I  passed,  glad  of  every 
bird  and  squirrel  in  the  branches,  glad  of  the 
cattle  grazing  in  the  fields,  glad  of  the  jolly 
boys  I  saw  on  their  way  to  school  with  their 
dinner  pails,  glad  of  the  bluff,  red-faced 
teamster  I  met,  and  of  the  snug  farmer  who 
waved  his  hand  at  me  and  wished  me  a 
friendly  good  morning.  It  seemed  to  fne 
that  I  liked  every  one  I  saw,  and  that  every 
one  liked  me. 

So  I  walked  onward  that  morning,  nor  ever 
have  had  such  a  sense  of  relief  and  escape, 
nor  ever  such  a  feeling  of  gayety. 

"Here  is  where  I  belong,"  I  said.     "This 
is  my  own  country.     Those  hills  are  mine, 
and  all  the  fields,  and  the  trees  and  the  sky  — 
and  the  road  here  belongs  to  me  as  much  as 
it  does  to  any  one." 

Coming  presently  to  a  small  house  near 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD         323 

the  side  of  the  road,  I  saw  a  woman  working 
with  a  trowel  in  her  sunny  garden.  It  was 
good  to  see  her  turn  over  the  warm  brown  soil; 
it  was  good  to  see  the  plump  green  rows 
of  lettuce  and  the  thin  green  rows  of  onions, 
and  the  nasturtiums  and  sweet  peas;  it  was 
good  —  after  so  many  days  in  that  desert 
of  a  city  —  to  get  a  whiff  of  blossoming  things. 
I  stood  for  a  moment  looking  quietly  over 
the  fence  before  the  woman  saw  me.  When 
at  last  she  turned  and  looked  up,  I  said: 

"Good  morning." 

She  paused,  trowel  in  hand. 

"Good  morning,"  she  replied;  "you  look 
happy." 

I  wasn't  conscious  that  I  was  smiling  out- 
wardly. 

"Well,  I  am,"  I  said;  "I'm  going  home." 

"Then  you  ought  to  be  happy,"  said  she. 

"And  I'm  glad  to  escape  that"  and  I  pointed 
toward  the  city. 

"What?" 

"  Why,  that  old  monster  lying  there  in  the 
valley." 

I  could  see  that  she  was  surprised  and  even 
a  little  alarmed.  So  I  began  intently  to  ad- 
mire her  young  cabbages  and  comment  on  the 


324         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

perfection  of  her  geraniums.  But  I  caught 
her  eying  me  from  time  to  time  as  I  leaned 
there  on  the  fence,  and  I  knew  that  she  would 
come  back  sooner  or  later  to  my  remark  about 
the  monster.  Having  shocked  your  friend 
(not  too  unpleasantly),  abide  your  time,  and 
he  will  want  to  be  shocked  again.  So  I  was 
not  at  all  surprised  to  hear  her  ask: 

"Have  you  travelled  far?" 

"I  should  say  so!"  I  replied.  "I've  been 
on  a  very  long  journey.  I've  seen  many 
strange  sights  and  met  many  wonderful 
people." 

"You  may  have  been  in  California,  then. 
I  have  a  daughter  in  California." 

"No,"  said  I,  "I  was  never  in  California." 

"You've  been  a  long  time  from  home,  you 
say?" 

"A  very  long  time  from  home." 

"How  long?" 

"Three  weeks." 

"Three  weeks!  And  how  far  did  you  say 
you  had  travelled?" 

"At  the  farthest  point,  I  should  say  sixty 
miles  from  home." 

"But  how  can  you  say  that  in  travelling 
only  sixty  miles  and  being  gone  three  weeks 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          325 

that  you  have  seen  so  many  strange  places 
and  people?" 

"Why,"  I  exclaimed,  "haven't  you  seen 
anything  strange  around  here?" 

"Why,  no "  glancing  quickly  around 

her. 

"Well,  I'm  strange,  am  I  not?" 

"Well " 

"And  you're  strange." 

She  looked  at  me  with  the  utmost  amaze- 
ment. I  could  scarcely  keep  from  laugh- 
ing. 

"I  assure  you,"  I  said,  "that  if  you  travel 
a  thousand  miles  you  will  find  no  one  stranger 
than  lam  —  or  you  are  —  nor  anything  more 

wonderful  than  all  this "  and  I  waved 

my  hand. 

This  time  she  looked  really  alarmed,  glanc- 
ing quickly  toward  the  house,  so  that  I  began 
to  laugh. 

"Madam,"  I  said,  "good  morning!" 

So  I  left  her  standing  there  by  the  fence 
looking  after  me,  and  I  went  on  down  the  road. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "she'll  have  something 
new  to  talk  about.  It  may  add  a  month 
to  her  life.  Was  there  ever  such  an  amusing 
world!" 


326         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

About  noon  that  day  I  had  an  adventure 
that  I  have  to  laugh  over  every  time  I  think 
of  it.  It  was  unusual,  too,  as  being  almost 
the  only  incident  of  my  journey  which  was 
of  itself  in  the  least  thrilling  or  out  of  the 
ordinary.  Why,  this  might  have  made  an 
item  in  the  country  paper! 

For  the  first  time  on  my  trip  I  saw  a  man 
that  I  really  felt  like  calling  a  tramp  —  a 
tramp  in  the  generally  accepted  sense  of  the 
term.  When  I  left  home  I  imagined  I  should 
meet  many  tramps,  and  perhaps  learn  from 
them  odd  and  curious  things  about  life;  but 
when  I  actually  came  into  contact  with  the 
shabby  men  of  the  road,  I  began  to  be  puzzled. 
What  was  a  tramp,  anyway? 

I  found  them  all  strangely  different,  each 
with  his  own  distinctive  history,  and  each 
accounting  for  himself  as  logically  as  I  could 
for  myself.  And  save  for  the  fact  that  in 
none  of  them  I  met  were  the  outward  graces 
and  virtues  too  prominently  displayed,  I  have 
come  back  quite  uncertain  as  to  what  a 
scientist  might  call  type-characteristics.  I 
had  thought  of  following  Emerson  in  his 
delightfully  optimistic  definition  of  a  weed. 
A  weed,  he  says,  is  a  plant  whose  virtues 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          327 

have  not  been  discovered.  A  tramp,  then, 
is  a  man  whose  virtues  have  not  been  dis- 
covered. Or,  I  might  follow  my  old  friend 
the  Professor  (who  dearly  loves  all  growing 
things)  in  his  even  kindlier  definition  of  a 
weed.  He  says  that  it  is  merely  a  plant  mis- 
placed. The  virility  of  this  definition  has 
often  impressed  me  when  I  have  tried  to 
grub  the  excellent  and  useful  horseradish 
plants  out  of  my  asparagus  bed!  Let  it  be 
then  —  a  tramp  is  a  misplaced  man,  whose 
virtues  have  not  been  discovered. 

Whether  this  is  an  adequate  definition 
or  not,  it  fitted  admirably  the  man  I  overtook 
that  morning  on  the  road.  He  was  certainly 
misplaced,  and  during  my  brief  but  exciting 
experience  with  him  I  discovered  no  virtues 
whatever. 

In  one  way  he  was  quite  different  from 
the  traditional  tramp.  He  walked  with  far 
too  lively  a  step,  too  jauntily,  and  he  had 
with  him  a  small,  shaggy,  nondescript  dog, 
a  dog  as  shabby  as  he,  trotting  close  at  his 
heels.  He  carried  a  light  stick,  which  he 
occasionally  twirled  over  in  his  hand.  As 
I  drew  nearer  I  could  hear  him  whistling  and 
even,  from  time  to  time,  breaking  into  a  lively 


328          THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

bit  of  song.     What  a  devil-may-care  chap  he 
seemed,  anyway!     I  was  greatly  interested. 

When  at  length  I  drew  alongside  he  did 
not  seem  in  the  least  surprised.  He  turned, 
glanced  at  me  with  his  bold  black  eyes,  and 
broke  out  again  into  the  song  he  was  singing. 
And  these  were  the  words  of  his  song  —  at 
least,  all  I  can  remember  of  them: 

Oh,  I'm  so  fine  and  gay, 
I'm  so  fine  and  gay, 
I  have  to  take  a  dog  along, 
To  kape  the  ga-irls  away. 

What  droll  zest  he  put  into  it!  He  had 
a  red  nose,  a  globular  red  nose  set  on  his 
face  like  an  overgrown  strawberry,  and  from 
under  the  worst  derby  hat  in  the  world  burst 
his  thick  curly  hair. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  fine  and  gay,"  he  sang,  step- 
ping to  the  rhythm  of  his  song,  and  looking 
the  very  image  of  good-humoured  impu- 
dence. I  can't  tell  how  amused  and  pleased 
I  was  —  though  if  I  had  known  what  was  to 
happen  later  I  might  not  have  been  quite  so 
friendly  —  yes,  I  would  too! 

We  fell  into  conversation,  and  it  wasn't 
long  before  I  suggested  that  we  stop  for 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          329 

luncheon  together  somewhere  along  the  road. 
He  cast  a  quick  appraising  eye  at  my  bag,  and 
assented  with  alacrity.  We  climbed  a  fence 
and  found  a  quiet  spot  near  a  little  brook. 

I  was  much  astonished  to  observe  the 
resources  of  my  jovial  companion.  Al- 
though he  carried  neither  bag  nor  pack 
and  appeared  to  have  nothing  whatever 
in  his  pockets,  he  proceeded,  like  a  pro- 
fessional prestidigitator,  to  produce  from 
his  shabby  clothing  an  extraordinary  number 
of  curious  things  —  a  black  tin  can  with  a 
wire  handle,  a  small  box  of  matches,  a  soiled 
package  which  I  soon  learned  contained  tea, 
a  miraculously  big  dry  sausage  wrapped  in  an 
old  newspaper,  and  a  clasp-knife.  I  watched 
him  with  breathless  interest. 

He  cut  a  couple  of  crotched  sticks  to  hang 
the  pail  on  and  in  two  or  three  minutes  had 
a  little  fire,  no  larger  than  a  man's  hand, 
burning  brightly  under  it.  ("Big  fires,"  said 
he  wisely,  "are  not  for  us.")  This  he  fed 
with  dry  twigs,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes  he 
had  a  pot  of  tea  from  which  he  offered  me 
the  first  drink.  This,  with  my  luncheon  and 
part  of  his  sausage,  made  up  a  very  good 
meal. 


330         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

While  we  were  eating,  the  little  dog  sat 
sedately  by  the  fire.  From  time  to  time  his 
master  would  say,  "Speak,  Jimmy." 

Jimmy  would  sit  up  on  his  haunches,  his 
two  front  paws  hanging  limp,  turn  his  head 
to  one  side  in  the  drollest  way  imaginable 
and  give  a  yelp.  His  master  would  toss 
him  a  bit  of  sausage  or  bread  and  he  would 
catch  it  with  a  snap. 

"Fine  dog!"  commented  my  companion. 

"So  he  seems,"  said  I. 

After  the  meal  was  over  my  companion 
proceeded  to  produce  other  surprises  from 
his  pockets  —  a  bag  of  tobacco,  a  brier  pipe 
(which  he  kindly  offered  to  me  and  which 
I  kindly  refused),  and  a  soiled  packet  of 
cigarette  papers.  Having  rolled  a  cigar- 
ette with  practised  facility,  he  leaned  up 
against  a  tree,  took  off  his  hat,  lighted  the 
cigarette  and,  having  taken  a  long  draw  at 
it,  blew  the  smoke  before  him  with  an  in- 
credible air  of  satisfaction. 

"Solid  comfort  this  here  —  hey!"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

We  had  some  further  talk,  but  for  so 
jovial  a  specimen  he  was  surprisingly  un- 
communicative. Indeed,  I  think  he  soon 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          331 

decided  that  I  somehow  did  not  belong  to  the 
fraternity,  that  I  was  a  "farmer"  —  in  the 
most  opprobrious  sense  —  and  he  soon  began 
to  drowse,  rousing  himself  once  or  twice  to 
roll  another  cigarette,  but  finally  dropping 
(apparently,  at  least)  fast  asleep. 

I  was  glad  enough  of  the  rest  and  quiet 
after  the  strenuous  experience  of  the  last 
two  days  —  and  I,  too,  soon  began  to 
drowse.  It  didn't  seem  to  me  then  that  I 
lost  consciousness  at  all,  but  I  suppose  I 
must  have  done  so,  for  when  I  suddenly 
opened  my  eyes  and  sat  up  my  companion 
had  vanished.  How  he  succeeded  in  gather- 
ing up  his  pail  and  packages  so  noiselessly 
and  getting  away  so  quickly  is  a  mystery 
to  me. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "that's  odd." 

Rousing  myself  deliberately  I  put  on  my 
hat  and  was  about  to  take  up  my  bag  when  I 
suddenly  discovered  that  it  was  open.  My 
rain-cape  was  missing!  It  wasn't  a  very 
good  rain-cape,  but  it  was  missing. 

At  first  I  was  inclined  to  be  angry,  but 
when  I  thought  of  my  jovial  companion 
and  the  cunning  way  in  which  he  had  tricked 
me,  I  couldn't  help  laughing.  At  the  same 


332         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

time  I  jumped  up  quickly  and  ran  down  to 
the  road. 

"I  may  get  him  yet,"  I  said. 

Just  as  I  stepped  out  of  the  woods  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  man  some  hundreds 
of  yards  away,  turning  quickly  from  the 
main  road  into  a  lane  or  by-path.  I  wasn't 
altogether  sure  that  he  was  my  man,  but  I 
ran  across  the  road  and  climbed  the  fence. 
I  had  formed  the  plan  instantly  of  cutting 
across  the  field  and  so  striking  the  by-road 
farther  up  the  hill.  I  had  a  curious  sense  of 
amused  exultation,  the  very  spirit  of  the 
chase,  and  my  mind  dwelt  with  the  liveliest 
excitement  on  what  I  should  say  or  do  if  I 
really  caught  that  jolly  spark  of  impudence. 

So  I  came  by  way  of  a  thicket  along  an 
old  stone  fence  to  the  by-road,  and  there, 
sure  enough,  only  a  little  way  ahead  of 
me,  was  my  man  with  the  shaggy  little 
dog  close  at  his  heels.  He  was  making 
pretty  good  time,  but  I  skirted  swiftly 
along  the  edge  of  the  road  until  I  had  nearly 
overtaken  him.  Then  I  slowed  down  to  a 
walk  and  stepped  out  into  the  middle  of  the 
road.  I  confess  my  heart  was  pounding  at  a 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          333 

lively  rate.  The  next  time  he  looked  behind 
him  —  guiltily  enough,  tool  —  I  said  in  the 
calmest  voice  I  could  command: 

"Well,  brother,  you  almost  left  me  be- 
hind." 

He  stopped  and  I  stepped  up  to  him. 

I  wish  I  could  describe  the  look  in  his  face 
—  mingled  astonishment,  fear,  and  defiance. 

"My  friend,"  I  said,  "I'm*  disappointed  in 
you." 

He  made  no  reply. 

"Yes,  I'm  disappointed.  You  did  such  a 
very  poor  job." 

"Poor  job!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  and  I  slipped  my  bag  off 
my  shoulder  and  began  to  rummage  inside. 
My  companion  watched  me  silently  and  sus- 
piciously. 

"You  should  not  have  left  the  rubbers." 

With  that  I  handed  him  my  old  rubbers. 
A  peculiar  expression  came  into  the  man's 
face. 

"Say,  pardner,  what  you  drivin'  at?" 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  don't  like  to  see  such 
evidences  of  haste  and  inefficiency." 

He  stood  staring  at  me  helplessly,  hold- 
ing my  old  rubbers  at  arm's  length. 


334         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"Come  on  now,"  I  said,  "that's  over. 
We'll  walk  along  together." 

I  was  about  to  take  his  arm,  but  quick 
as  a  flash  he  dodged,  cast  both  rubbers  and 
rain-cape  away  from  him,  and  ran  down  the 
road  for  all  he  was  worth,  the  little  dog,  look- 
ing exactly  like  a  rolling  ball  of  fur,  pelting 
after  him.  He  never  once  glanced  back,  but 
ran  for  his  life.  I  stood  there  and  laughed 
until  the  tears  came,  and  ever  since  then,  at 
the  thought  of  the  expression  on  the  jolly 
rover's  face  when  I  gave  him  my  rubbers,  I've 
had  to  smile.  I  put  the  rain-cape  and  rubbers 
back  into  my  bag  and  turned  again  to  the 
road. 

Before  the  afternoon  was  nearly  spent  I 
found  myself  very  tired,  for  my  two  days'  ex- 
perience in  the  city  had  been  more  exhausting 
for  me,  I  think,  than  a  whole  month  of  hard 
labour  on  my  farm.  I  found  haven  with  a 
friendly  farmer,  whom  I  joined  while  he  was 
driving  his  cows  in  from  the  pasture.  I  helped 
him  with  his  milking  both  that  night  and 
the  next  morning,  and  found  his  situation 
and  family  most  interesting  —  but  I  shall 
not  here  enlarge  upon  that  experience. 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD         335 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  I  finally  sur- 
mounted the  hill  from  which  I  knew  well 
enough  I  could  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  my 
farm.  For  a  moment  after  I  reached  the 
top  I  could  not  raise  my  eyes,  and  when 
finally  I  was  able  to  raise  them  I  could  not  see. 

"There  is  a  spot  in  Arcady  —  a  spot  in 

Arcady  —  a  spot  in  Arcady "  So  runs 

the  old  song. 

There  is  a  spot  in  Arcady,  and  at  the 
centre  of  it  there  is  a  weather-worn  old 
house,  and  not  far  away  a  perfect  oak  tree, 
and  green  fields  all  about,  and  a  pleasant 
stream  fringed  with  alders  in  the  little 
valley.  And  out  of  the  chimney  into  the 
sweet,  still  evening  air  rises  the  slow  white 
smoke  of  the  supper-fire. 

I  turned  from  the  main  road,  and  climbed 
the  fence  and  walked  across  my  upper  field 
to  the  old  wood  lane.  The  air  was  heavy 
and  sweet  with  clover  blossoms,  and  along 
the  fences  I  could  see  that  the  raspberry 
bushes  were  ripening  their  fruit. 

So  I  came  down  the  lane  and  heard  the 
comfortable  grunting  of  pigs  in  the  pasture 
lot  and  saw  the  calves  licking  one  another 
as  they  stood  at  the  gate. 


336         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"How  they've  grown!"  I  said. 

I  stopped  at  the  corner  of  the  barn  a 
moment.  From  within  I  heard  the  rattling 
of  milk  in  a  pail  (a  fine  sound),  and  heard 
a  man's  voice  saying: 

"Whoa,  there!     Stiddy  now!" 

"Dick's  milking,"  I  said. 

So  I  stepped  in  at  the  doorway. 

"Lord,  Mr.  Grayson!"  exclaimed  Dick,  ris- 
ing instantly  and  clasping  my  hand  like  a 
long-lost  brother. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you!" 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you!" 

The  warm  smell  of  the  new  milk,  the 
pleasant  sound  of  animals  stepping  about 
in  the  stable,  the  old  mare  reaching  her  long 
head  over  the  stanchion  to  welcome  me,  and 
nipping  at  my  fingers  when  I  rubbed  her 
nose 

And  there  was  the  old  house  with  the 
late  sun  upon  it,  the  vines  hanging  green 
over  the  porch,  Harriet's  trim  flower  bed  — 
I  crept  along  quietly  to  the  corner.  The 
kitchen  door  stood  open. 

"Well,  Harriet!"  I  said,  stepping  in- 
side. 

"Mercy!     David!" 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          337 

I  have  rarely  known  Harriet  to  be  in 
quite  such  a  reckless  mood.  She  kept  think- 
ing of  a  new  kind  of  sauce  or  jam  for  supper 
(I  think  there  were  seven,  or  were  there 
twelve?  on  the  table  before  I  got  through). 
And  there  was  a  new  rhubarb  pie  such  as  only 
Harriet  can  make,  just  brown  enough  on 
top,  and  not  too  brown,  with  just  the  right 
sort  of  hills  and  hummocks  in  the  crust,  and 
here  and  there  little  sugary  bubbles  where  a 
suggestion  of  the  goodness  came  through 

—  such  a  pie !  and  such  an  appetite  to 

go  with  it! 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "y°u're  spoiling  me. 
Haven't  you  heard  how  dangerous  it  is  to 
set  such  a  supper  as  this  before  a  man  who  is 
perishing  with  hunger?  Have  you  no  mercy 
forme?" 

This  remark  produced  the  most  extraordi- 
nary effect.  Harriet  was  at  that  moment  stand- 
ing in  the  corner  near  the  pump.  Her  shoul- 
ders suddenly  began  to  shake  convulsively. 

"She's  so  glad  I'm  home  that  she  can't 
help  laughing,"  I  thought,  which  shows  how 
penetrating  I  really  am. 

She  was  crying. 

"Why,  Harriet!"  I  exclaimed. 


338        THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

"Hungry!"  she  burst  out,  "and  j-joking 
about  it!" 

I  couldn't  say  a  single  word ;  something  — 
it  must  have  been  a  piece  of  the  rhubarb 
pie  —  stuck  in  my  throat.  So  I  sat  there  and 
watched  her  moving  quietly  about  in  that  im- 
maculate kitchen.  After  a  time  I  walked  over 
to  where  she  stood  by  the  table  and  put  my 
arm  around  her  quickly.  She  half  turned  her 
head,  in  her  quick,  businesslike  way.  I  noted 
how  firm  and  clean  and  sweet  her  face  was. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "you  grow  younger 
every  year." 

No  response. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "I  haven't  seen  a  single 
person  anywhere  on  my  journey  that  I  like 
as  much  as  I  do  you." 

The  quick  blood  came  up. 

"There  —  there  —  David!"  she  said. 

So  I  stepped  away. 

"And  as  for  rhubarb  pie,  Harriet " 

When  I  first  came  to  my  farm  years  ago 
there  were  mornings  when  I  woke  up  with 
the  strong  impression  that  I  had  just  been 
hearing  the  most  exquisite  music.  I  don't 
know  whether  this  is  at  all  a  common  experi- 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          339 

ence,  but  in  those  days  (and  farther  back  in 
my  early  boyhood)  I  had  it  frequently.  It 
did  not  seem  exactly  like  music  either,  but 
was  rather  a  sense  of  harmony,  so  wonderful, 
so  pervasive  that  it  cannot  be  described. 
I  have  not  had  it  so  often  in  recent  years, 
but  on  the  morning  after  I  reached  home 
it  came  to  me  as  I  awakened  with  a  strange 
depth  and  sweetness.  I  lay  for  a  moment 
there  in  my  clean  bed.  The  morning  sun  was 
up  and  coming  in  cheerfully  through  the 
vines  at  the  window;  a  gentle  breeze  stirred 
the  clean  white  curtains,  and  I  could  smell 
even  there  the  odours  of  the  garden. 

I  wish  I  had  room  to  tell,  but  I  cannot, 
of  all  the  crowded  experiences  of  that  day  — 
the  renewal  of  acquaintance  with  the  fields, 
the  cattle,  the  fowls,  the  bees,  of  my  long 
talks  with  Harriet  and  Dick  Sheridan,  who 
had  cared  for  my  work  while  I  was  away;  of 
the  wonderful  visit  of  the  Scotch  Preacher, 
of  Horace's  shrewd  and  whimsical  comments 
upon  the  general  absurdity  of  the  head  of  the 
Grayson  family  —  oh,  of  a  thousand  things  — 
and  how  when  I  went  into  my  study  and  took 
up  the  nearest  book  in  my  favourite  case  — 
it  chanced  to  be  "The  Bible  in  Spain"  —  it 


340         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

opened  of  itself  at  one  of  my  favourite  pas- 
sages, the  one  beginning: 

"Mistos  amande,  I  am  content " 

So  it's  all  over!  It  has  been  a  great  experi- 
ence; and  it  seems  to  me  now  that  I  have  a 
firmer  grip  on  life,  and  a  firmer  trust  in 
that  Power  which  orders  the  ages.  In  a 
book  I  read  not  long  ago,  called  "A  Modern 
Utopia,"  the  writer  provides  in  his  imaginary 
perfect  state  of  society  a  class  of  leaders 
known  as  Samurai.  And,  from  time  to 
time,  it  is  the  custom  of  these  Samurai  to 
cut  themselves  loose  from  the  crowding 
world  of  men,  and  with  packs  on  their  backs 
go  away  alone  to  far  places  in  the  deserts  or 
on  Arctic  ice  caps.  I  am  convinced  that 
every  man  needs  some  such  change  as  this, 
an  opportunity  to  think  things  out,  to  get  a 
new  grip  on  life,  and  a  new  hold  on  God.  But 
not  for  me  the  Arctic  ice  cap  or  the  desert! 
I  choose  the  Friendly  Road  —  and  all  the  com- 
mon people  who  travel  in  it  or  live  along  it  — 
I  choose  even  the  busy  city  at  the  end  of  it. 

I  assure  you,  friend,  that  it  is  a  wonderful 
thing  for  a  man  to  cast  himself  freely  for  a 
time  upon  the  world,  not  knowing  where  his 


THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD          341 

next  meal  is  coming  from,  nor  where  he  is 
going  to  sleep  for  the  night.  It  is  a  surprising 
readjuster  of  values.  I  paid  my  way,  I 
think,  throughout  my  pilgrimage;  but  I 
discovered  that  stamped  metal  is  far  from 
being  the  world's  only  true  coin.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  there  are  many  things  that 
men  prize  more  highly  —  because  they  are 
rarer  and  more  precious. 

My  friend,  if  you  should  chance  your- 
self some  day  to  follow  the  Friendly  Road, 
you  may  catch  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  a  man 
in  a  rusty  hat,  carrying  a  gray  bag,  and 
sometimes  humming  a  little  song  under  his 
breath  for  the  joy  of  being  there.  And  it 
may  actually  happen,  if  you  stop  him,  that 
he  will  take  a  tin  whistle  from  his  bag  and 
play  for  you,  "Money  Musk,"  or  "Old  Dan 
Tucker,"  or  he  may  produce  a  battered  old 
volume  of  Montaigne  from  which  he  will 
read  you  a  passage.  If  such  an  adventure 
should  befall  you,  know  that  you  have  met 
Your  friend, 

DAVID  GRAYSON. 

P.  S.  —  Harriet  bemoans  most  of   all  the 
unsolved    mystery    of    the    sign    man.     But 


342         THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

it  doesn't  bother  me  in  the  least.  I'm 
glad  now  I  never  found  him.  The  poet 
sings  his  song  and  goes  his  way.  If  we  sought 
him  out  how  horribly  disappointed  we  might 
be!  We  might  find  him  shaving,  or  eating 
sausage,  or  drinking  a  bottle  of  beer.  We 
might  find  him  shaggy  and  unkempt  where 
we  imagined  him  beautiful,  weak  where  we 
thought  him  strong,  dull  where  we  thought 
him  brilliant.  Take  then  the  vintage  of  his 
heart  and  let  him  go.  As  for  me,  I'm  glad 
some  mystery  is  left  in  this  world.  A  thou- 
sand signs  on  my  roadways  are  still  as  un- 
explainable,  as  mysterious,  and  as  beguiling 
as  this.  And  I  can  close  my  narrative  with 
no  better  motto  for  tired  spirits  than  that  of 
the  country  roadside: 

REST 


THE  COUNTRY  LITE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  .Y. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000  031  633     1 


